by Maureen Lang
He held out the journal. “Read it, Tal. I’m glad I did, even if I can’t live up to the man your great-great-great-grandmother married.”
Talie tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“Read it and find out.”
Reluctantly Talie accepted the worn-out journal. She was half tempted to put it on the floor and get to it some other time. But Luke would probably stand vigil until she gave it some attention tonight or he fell asleep—whichever came first. She reached for the lamp beside the bed and clicked it on again.
Before searching for the page where she’d left off, Talie looked at her husband. “I don’t believe in curses any more than you do, Luke. But there’s something here. It points to whatever Ben has. I don’t know if I can read any more. . . .”
Luke sat beside her, cross-legged. “I’m not ready to believe anything yet, Talie. Not in curses and not in some genetic disease that’s been hiding in your genes for so long. If Ben does have something and it’s the same thing described in this journal, then we have to know. It’ll show in his blood test; don’t you think? Since nothing has come back so far, maybe nothing will.”
Talie felt hot tears gather on the rims of her eyes. “It came from me.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close. “You don’t know that, but it doesn’t matter anyway. We can’t choose our genes, Tal. It’s no one’s fault.”
A pair of tears slipped from each eye. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“That’s why you have to read the journal,” he whispered. “Don’t you think your ancestor Cosima had a reason to write this journal? Maybe she felt guilty too, but by the time she wrote this she’d learned enough to know that wasn’t right. Remember what it said in the beginning? That love and faith in Christ are stronger than fear? Is fear all that different from guilt if you’re the one feeling responsible for the fear?”
Talie pulled away to reach for a tissue from the nightstand. The journal felt heavy in her lap, and she wanted to push it away.
As if reading her thoughts, Luke stared at her. “Read it, Tal.”
“I really, really don’t want to.”
“You won’t regret it. It made me think that if Ben does have something, maybe we can face it after all. If we can live up to them.”
Luke leaned back on his own side of the bed. Reluctantly, Talie turned the pages. But no sooner had she read a word than Luke spoke again.
“When you’re done you ought to give it to Dana.”
Talie stared at him. The very thing she’d been protecting Dana from all this time . . . he wanted to tell her? Just like that? There was no proof any of this affected her. Why bring her into it at all?
She looked back at the journal without saying a word.
32
Cervantes said in Don Quixote that honesty is the best policy. I thought I held to such a policy, and yet what have I done? Kept from my friends the truth about myself.
The last two weeks have dragged so slowly I wondered if they would ever pass. Long days spent under the scrutiny and tutelage of Dowager Merit have brought my spirits down. I have felt only the slightest peace upon my pillow each night as I count another day gone.
Dowager Merit finds my education for running a household somewhere between woefully lacking and downright delinquent. She drills me with questions, most of which I fail to answer properly. What should the mistress of a house do if a servant is found derelict in his or her duty? Find the reason and address the problem. Which is, of course, incorrect. Unworthy, unskilled, or uncommitted servants are to be sacked immediately, without references.
However, while my grandmother is fastidious and firm, I have also learned she is generous in wages. Hopeful applicants for a position in the Escott home never dwindle. Nearly every morning I spot a plain-clothed man or woman either approaching or retreating from the yard.
I have also experienced the dowager’s generosity firsthand. A dressmaker was summoned to “complete my wardrobe.” In an amazingly short span of time she produced for me a dozen new gowns for day and evening, two new cloaks, and even a striped burnoose inspired by an Arabian seamstress, plus many hats and countless pairs of gloves, petticoats, and shoes. Bundles and baggage of every shape and size have been packed and sent ahead to the Escott country house or marked for later transport.
Because Reginald has been absent since the week after my arrival at the Escott town house, Dowager Merit has frequently addressed the topic of my possible nuptials.
“Until the man proves himself more attentive than he has done so far,” she said to me one morning, “all plans for a wedding are out of the question.”
I do not care how long it will be before I am able to plan my wedding with Reginald. Instead I am counting the days until I leave London for the three-day stay at Hamilton Hall. Only within these pages will I admit that impatience proves love, as the old saying goes. . . .
Reginald arrived early on the day of departure. His bright blue eyes were happy and light, and Cosima felt a genuine fountain of happiness spring up when she saw him. He had sent two notes during her stay with her grandmother, telling Cosima about preparations the Hamiltons had made for their upcoming garden party. Reginald seemed to be looking forward to the event almost as much as Cosima herself.
It rained most of the way out to the country, and when they arrived at the proper station, they hastened from the train coach to a borrowed Hamilton carriage one at a time, a footman holding open a huge umbrella. Baggage was transferred to a separate, tarp-covered wagon, while the two servants in their party waited for a hired carriage.
The grounds at Hamilton Hall glistened in shades of green that Cosima hadn’t seen since she left home. Sprawling lawns, patches of trees, flowering hedges, and far-off gardens attested to the meticulous care of every inch of land God had entrusted to this family.
The home itself stretched out with two wings balanced from a taller middle, where six white columns enhanced a circular portico. Built of light brick with white shutters at the countless tall windows, the residence was imposing and inviting all at once. Three stories high and twice the size of the ancient manor house Cosima had left in Ireland, it was by far the stateliest home she had ever visited.
Cosima peered through the wet glass at other carriages arriving with them, toward the open front door teeming with guests and footmen with black umbrellas. Not seeing the one she sought, her gaze scanned the home’s windows in hope of spotting him there.
That Peter was nowhere to be found among the influx of soggy visitors shouldn’t come as any surprise, though she couldn’t deny a certain disappointment. But what did she expect? Why did she think he would want to seek her out, to keep looking for a message she would not send?
Before long, Cosima stood in a crowded foyer. She barely noticed any of the decor, just a sparkling chandelier hanging from a high, domed ceiling and a marble-and-alabaster staircase lined with mahogany railings. She watched guests greet each other while servants lingered to take away their sodden garments or direct them to assigned rooms.
“Cosima! Oh, my friend! Welcome!”
The call came from Beryl, making her way through the throng followed closely by Christabelle. Beryl pulled Cosima into a tight embrace.
Christabelle’s hug quickly followed. “I feel like saying welcome home; only you’ve never been here before, have you?”
Cosima shook her head, laughing and looking beyond the people to their surroundings. “It’s splendid!”
“Let’s go upstairs, away from the crowd,” Beryl said.
But Cosima held back. “I’ve become separated from Reginald.”
“He’ll expect you’ll want time to yourself after the journey, and besides, he’s probably looking for Peter. They have some bridges to mend. Come along.”
Her statement about mending bridges intrigued Cosima, but Beryl was already leading the way upstairs. She led Cosima to a large bedroom, and even with dull weather outside, the room seemed fu
ll of light from many windows. The walls were covered in red-silk wallpaper, with a fringed canopy atop the bed. Scattered occasional tables were laden with books and oil lamps.
“I’m glad the weekend is finally here,” said Beryl. “And I’m especially glad you’re here. I wish you were here to stay.”
Cosima squeezed Beryl’s hand. She wished it too but didn’t think she should say so. “You said something downstairs about Reginald and Peter mending bridges. What did you mean?”
Christabelle spoke up. “The two of them had an awful dispute the other day. They were outside in the pavilion, and we heard it all the way to the veranda.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Peter wouldn’t say what it was about, but I have a notion it was about you, Cosima.”
Cosima felt her eyes widen and her heart drop. Even Beryl looked surprised. Cosima looked across at Christabelle.
“Oh, you both think I’m some kind of ninny, don’t you?” Christabelle said with a frown. “Just because I’m two years younger, you think I don’t see things. But I do. I see more than either of you might guess.”
“All right, Chrissy,” coaxed Beryl, “why don’t you tell us what you think you’ve seen?”
Christabelle leaned back on the settee and folded her arms in front of her, looking at Cosima rather than at her sister. “I think you’re not in the least bit interested in marrying Reginald, and he knows it. I think you’re in love with my brother, and moreover, I think he’s in love with you.”
A tremble coursed through Cosima, mortified that Christabelle knew the truth without their ever having exchanged a word on the subject.
But even as Cosima felt so vulnerable, Beryl exuded an amused laugh. “How do you know so much, Chrissy, when Peter was absent much of summer?”
“That in itself is evidence. It was quite easy to figure out, even if I hadn’t seen the way he looked at Cosima on those rare occasions they were together.”
Beryl laughed again as though she was thoroughly enjoying herself. “There, you see, Cosima? If even little Christabelle has figured it out, the truth is obvious. You know what you must do, and you must do it immediately. You must go to our brother and tell him how you feel. You’re the one supposedly engaged. He won’t come to you first.”
Confusion engulfed Cosima. Desire warred with logic. She couldn’t marry Peter, no matter what any of them believed or even wanted. Perhaps Beryl should know why, and then she would give up her efforts to throw them together.
“It seems to me Reginald must suspect something if their argument concerned Cosima,” Christabelle said. “Perhaps he won’t give her up . . . and they’ll fight a duel!”
Beryl rolled her eyes and Cosima’s stomach twisted, even though she knew no one fought duels anymore. She stood, turning her back on the sisters, wringing her hands. If Christabelle had guessed Cosima’s feelings for Peter, she probably wasn’t alone. Perhaps Reginald really did suspect Cosima cared for Peter in a way that should be reserved for Reginald alone.
But if that was the case, why bring her here? Why make sure she was included in the invitation and go to the trouble of escorting her? Perhaps to prove to himself—and to Peter—that even if she did harbor feelings for Peter it was Reginald she would choose to marry.
“What’s the matter, Cosima?” asked Beryl, coming up behind her. “Surely you don’t believe Christabelle! Only silly Frenchmen would consider a duel these days, or perhaps a wild American.”
Cosima forced a smile. “No, it’s not that. It’s . . . something else. Something you don’t know.”
“What don’t we know?” asked Christabelle.
Cosima faced them, offering a quick prayer for the Lord to guide her tongue. Truth was the answer. She knew Reginald preferred she didn’t speak of the curse, but she no longer felt honest without Beryl’s and Christabelle’s knowing.
“I am in love with your brother,” she admitted, and both girls’ grins widened.
“Well,” said Beryl, “that’s something we do know. You said there is something we don’t.”
Cosima nodded, took a deep breath, then walked around them to retake her seat before the fireplace. With the dampness of the day, a low fire had been set and she welcomed the warmth. “I will tell you why I cannot marry your brother, even if he asked me.”
“What?” Christabelle said.
At the same moment Beryl took her seat next to Cosima and put a hand on her shoulder. “I knew there was something troubling you. Tell us, Cosima. It’s high time.”
Cosima looked from one sister to the other, welcoming their concern. Would they still look at her with such affection after they knew? “I should have no real wish to marry any man. And no man should wish to marry me. Not even Reginald, who has so much less to lose than Peter.”
“Now you’re making absolutely no sense, Cosima,” Beryl said. “What should Reginald lose if he marries you?”
“A future generation,” she told them, looking down at her hands instead of at them. “I’m . . . cursed.”
She hadn’t meant to use the word she so hated, but in that moment it was the only one that expressed it so succinctly.
“Cursed!” Christabelle repeated.
Beryl looked exasperated. “Do you know how medieval that sounds?”
Cosima rubbed her palms together in an attempt to still their unsteadiness. She avoided Beryl’s penetrating gaze. “’Tis true—at least so says everyone who knows the Kennesey women.”
“Kennesey . . . that’s your mother’s side of the family, the side that handed down the cross?”
Cosima nodded. “Yes. Only it seems the Kennesey legacy isn’t just a family heirloom.” She paused, wondering how best to tell them. “Starting with my grandmother and her younger sister, and after that my mother and my aunt . . . all the Kennesey women who bore children . . .”
“Yes?” Beryl probed, filling the hesitation Cosima left.
“All of them . . . had children . . . sons in particular . . . who . . . who were . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cosima, just tell us!” Beryl insisted.
“Feebleminded,” Cosima whispered at last. There. She’d said it. She’d told them the truth.
Cosima watched Beryl and Christabelle exchange uncertain glances.
“All of the men on your mother’s side are feebleminded?”
“Not all. But I had two brothers—one of whom has gone on to heaven and one who remains with my parents—both dull witted.” Perhaps it was better for her to explain in more detail before she allowed too many questions. “My surviving brother is Royboy, and no sweeter boy can be found. Mischievous, I should add, but there’s not a trace of malice in him. He . . . he just doesn’t learn. He talks only a little, though he chatters quite a bit and does odd things, like chewing on clothing or leather or paper. Anything, really, if he has the chance to put it in his mouth. He remembers some things, like events of long ago, but something said a moment ago or an instruction given is immediately forgotten.”
She smiled then, remembering Royboy. She had spoken so little of her family for fear of giving away the secret that blocked memories now flooded in one after another. “He loves animals and loves to eat, though he’s so slim you wouldn’t guess it. He loves music and the game of pantomime—just to watch, mind you, not to participate—and he smiles from the moment he wakes to the moment he goes to sleep. Except . . . well, sometimes things upset him, like sudden noises. And at times he’ll cry for no reason at all—at least no reason we can see. He might go from tears to laughter in a moment.”
Cosima looked at Beryl and Christabelle again, and she could tell she had their avid attention. “But never would a mean thought cross his mind—not like the rest of us. He’s pure to the core, even when others are mean or impatient with him. His smile makes me remember what’s important when I become caught in my own troubles. He’s here as the smile of God, I believe, because he has one for everyone.”
“He sounds easier to love than most brothers,” Christabelle said. �
�At least brothers who sometimes ignore you or tell you you’re silly.”
“I do love Royboy,” Cosima admitted, “but sometimes ’tis hard. He gets into things, makes messes, and breaks things because he doesn’t know better. He’s restless much of the day, simply cannot sit still. But if he’s kept busy and watched over, he can accomplish some small tasks. He never complains.”
“How many such boys are in your family, like Royboy?” Beryl asked.
“Percy was my older brother who died.” She wouldn’t tell them the details of that death, at least not yet. She’d horrified them enough. “And I had two cousins and an uncle and two distant cousins who moved to Dublin with their family long ago.”
“Do they die younger? Is that why your older brother is gone?”
“No . . . he died in a fire. The boys in my family are healthy, except they can’t learn.”
“But you’re so smart, Cosima! How could this be in your family? Is your mother . . . ?”
Cosima shook her head. “She’s very much like me. In fact, she’s a talented artist. I did hear long ago of a child who would have been my aunt, who died of a fever. She might not have been very clever, but then women are accepted with lower expectations than men, aren’t they? I suppose we’ll never know if this . . . curse . . . can pass to women as well as men. Not if the curse dies with me.”
A long silence passed, and Cosima eyed her two friends, who looked suddenly spent, as if they’d just returned from a walk that had gone on too long. “You see now why I cannot possibly marry your brother, no matter what we might feel for one another.”
Beryl shook her head. “I don’t see that at all. It’s obvious some of the babies born to Kennesey women aren’t feebleminded. You, for example. I’m sure if you counted all of your relatives, there are quite a few who are sound minded.”
“Yes, of course, but where most families might have one or two children with some sort of flaw, my family has more than its share.”
Beryl hugged Cosima close and Christabelle quickly followed.
“Thank you,” Cosima whispered, seeing her friends’ faces lacking all horror after what she’d just told them. She brushed away an escaped tear, then with one arm around each of them, eyed them earnestly. “You’ll help me, won’t you? help me now to avoid your brother? rescue me when I think of him and help me to ignore these feelings?”