The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  She took Ben from her mother. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  Val patted Talie’s arm. “You think about it then. But it might be nice to talk to someone who’s been through so much. I know she still grieves the baby she lost. A baby’s death isn’t something a mother gets over.”

  “Mom, you don’t understand, do you?” Talie’s voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper, but the reproach was unmistakable. Perhaps she should have let the moment pass, knowing they were all just trying to cope. But the words were out and she couldn’t call them back.

  “What do you mean?”

  She couldn’t stop now. “I mean that Luke and I feel exactly like Ronnie must have felt thirty years ago. We feel like we lost a baby too. We thought we had a son who would grow up with big dreams—maybe not our dreams, but at least his own. Somebody we could nurture until he was out of the nest, ready to build his own. This diagnosis feels like the death of the baby we thought we had.”

  “Of course it does, honey,” said Val. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like Ronnie suffered more than you.”

  “Grief is grief,” Dana said.

  “If you ask me, Ronnie got the better deal,” Talie muttered.

  “Better deal? But honey, she only got to love and take care of her baby for three short months.”

  Talie leveled a hard gaze on her mother. “Her baby is in heaven, Mom. She didn’t have to watch him grow up and struggle every day to learn the simplest thing. Her baby’s battle ended the day he died. Mine and Luke’s will outlive us. Who’s going to take care of Ben when we’re gone? He’ll need care for the rest of his life, if he’s anything like—”

  She cut herself off. They didn’t know about Royboy, Willie, or Ellen Dana. She glanced at the journal beside her on the table, knowing she’d have to tell them but unsure how.

  Her mother reached for one of the napkins on the table, wiping away tears. “I’m sorry I ever brought her up. I was only trying to help.”

  Luke put an arm around Talie, and his touch communicated more than words. She handed Ben to Luke then faced Val. Her mother’s sob forced her own tears to escape and they clutched one another, each offering apologies over the other’s.

  At last Val took another napkin and handed it to Talie. “This is not going to tear this family apart,” she pronounced. “In fact, my prayer is that it draws us closer. Need does that, you know. Or should. We need each other now. And God.”

  Talie let out a little breath of air, not exactly a huff. A resentful one.

  “God is still God, Talie,” Val said. “And He still loves every one of us. Me, you. Ben. Dana.”

  Talie raised a watery gaze her mother’s way. “I . . . know. . . .”

  She guessed her mother saw her struggle, the one that might not doubt God was God, only that He was good.

  Talie glanced at Dana. Had any of it sunk in yet? Did she realize how personal the ramifications were? what it all meant to her . . . and to Aidan? “I suppose you have some questions, Dana.”

  Dana shrugged. “It’s hard to believe any of this. If we’re carriers for mental retardation, how come we’re not affected at all? We both graduated magna cum laude.”

  “Nonsymptom carriers,” Talie said, as if a term could possibly explain anything.

  Dana stared at her. Talie could hear her sister swallow once, hard. “How are you so sure this affects both of us?”

  “It came from Dad. Genetically speaking, it’s a certainty.”

  “But how do you know it came from Dad? If it came from Mom, the same fifty-fifty statistic would still apply, wouldn’t it?”

  Talie picked up the journal. “It’s in here, Dana.”

  “What is?” Val asked.

  But Talie didn’t look at their mother. Instead, she stared at Dana.

  Dana broke the gaze and took the journal. “There are relatives in here who are handicapped, aren’t there?”

  Talie couldn’t deny it; Dana must see it in her eyes. The truth was sinking in.

  “And you didn’t tell us? You didn’t connect Ben’s delays to what’s in here?”

  “Look at the date, Dana: 1849. I didn’t think anything that happened so long ago could possibly have anything to do with—”

  “But Ben’s delays . . . wasn’t that enough?”

  “I already told you I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted him to be okay.”

  “And so you kept this to yourself all this time.”

  It was more accusation than observation.

  If there had still been sympathy in Dana’s gaze, it was blotted out by anger. “You knew before I started dating Aidan that something might be in our family.”

  Another accusation, this one entirely unveiled.

  Talie stood, putting her hands on Dana’s shoulders. “I . . . I didn’t believe it at first. I didn’t want it to be true. I only finished reading the journal last night. I kept hiding it away, out of sight and out of mind.”

  Dana shook her off, turning away. She went as far as she could without leaving the room entirely, going to the picture window on the other side of the living room.

  Luke stood and said he’d take Ben in the bathroom for a diaper change. Talie didn’t blame him; even the sour air that would accompany a soiled diaper was preferable to the tension in this room. Their mother sat still. If Val understood the depth of the battle, she said nothing to indicate she might have a side.

  At last Val pulled Talie to her feet, directing her toward Dana. Talie didn’t want to follow but knew if she didn’t, her mother would pull her along anyway. Just like when they were kids. Kiss-and-make-up time.

  “I don’t know the details or what’s in that journal. I’ve never seen it before today, but I assume it came out of that box with the family Bible in it.” Val paused, looking between her daughters. “It’s plain to see you’re both hurting right now. But there’s no malice here. Not on God’s part to you, Talie. And not on Talie’s part to you, Dana. The world is full of sorrow, and there’s no reason any one of us should be spared. We’re not in heaven yet, girls. Remember that, both of you.”

  Neither daughter said anything. Talie couldn’t think of a thing to say, and she guessed Dana wasn’t ready to talk. The anger was too fresh.

  Maybe Dana was righteous in that anger. Maybe she’d never understand why Talie had put off telling her. Maybe all Dana would remember was that Talie could have warned Dana before she’d gotten serious with Aidan but had chosen denial instead. Talie might have been wrong, but she’d had no idea how wrong until receiving this diagnosis.

  “I’m going to Talie’s,” Val said. “I plan to stay the day and babysit because I want them to go out and get their mind off of things. Go shopping, go to a museum. Maybe dinner. Did you tell me on the phone yesterday that you and Aidan are seeing a movie tonight, Dana?”

  It looked as though ice stiffened Dana’s spine. “Aidan and I won’t be going out tonight.”

  She glanced once more at Talie, who felt the icicles aimed her way, despite their mother’s reconciliation attempt.

  How could she tell Dana—make her believe—that she would do anything to make it all untrue?

  Talie turned when she heard Luke returning with Ben in one arm and a small blue plastic bag holding a heavy, disposable diaper in the other. They took their trash with them when they left, especially the odorous kind.

  That was when she noticed Dana’s wall arrangement for the first time. The clock, the black-and-white photographs blown up and framed in the weathered windowpane. But a shadow box in between drew her eye and kept it riveted. A cross, not much bigger than the palm of Talie’s hand, hung inside. It was edged in iron.

  Talie neared it.

  Luke must have noticed it as well, but Talie didn’t turn around. She heard Ben’s noises close in behind her.

  “Do you see it?” Talie whispered.

  “It looks like . . .”

  “Dana,” Talie said, louder now, “where did you get this cross hanging on your wall
?”

  “From the attic. It was in Dad’s things. Why?”

  Talie looked at Luke, who stared back with the first hint of light she’d seen in his eyes in days.

  “This has to be it. Where else could it have come from, if your dad had it? Look,” Luke added, bending closer, “there’s the middle, polished smooth from everybody’s thumb.”

  Dana approached. “What are you talking about?”

  Talie turned to her sister and smiled. The gesture felt odd, as if the muscles used for that had already hardened. “Read the journal, Dana. And remember: all and whatever.”

  38

  I have been remiss in recording events of the past few days. But I must confess it is far more satisfying to be living the love Peter and I share instead of simply writing about it. While I know these events are forever engraved upon my heart, I want this written account to be complete for those not yet born. Yes, I can happily write of that hope now! This journal and whatever it has to offer might someday be held in the hands of our children, Peter’s and mine, and every generation after as God so chooses to bless. It has been three days since my world was crushed and revitalized all in one evening. Three days of joy the likes of which I have never known before, reveling in the love Peter is so eager to give.

  I told Peter everything—from the worst of Royboy’s weaknesses to the horrible day my parents and I found Percy and the others in the ruins of the hunting lodge. I cried as I told him, and Peter held me close with tears of his own. Again and again I offered him freedom from his proposal, but again and again he flatly refused.

  Both Beryl and Christabelle are thrilled with our plans to marry, but of all my relatives, Dowager Merit’s response was the most unexpected. She had been the one to warn the Hamiltons about me, which had led me to conclude that she would not approve of the match.

  But upon seeing us together that morning after the ball, the dowager took my hand and whispered, “He needed to make an informed decision, my dear. And so he has. It is not impossible for you to give him a son to carry on. You have healthy male cousins to prove that. See that you do, for England’s sake—no matter how many children you must bear.” Then she kissed my cheek and gave her blessing for all to hear!

  The night before we left for Ireland, I met with the Hamilton family in the drawing room to pray. Between requests for a safe journey, I sensed in Lord Hamilton’s voice a sincerity to seek and follow God’s guidance even as he asked Him to guard the future of the Hamilton legacy. I prayed we would all put His will before our own.

  When we departed Hamilton Hall, Peter sat beside me in the carriage taking us to the train. He held my hand, and though our smiles were inspired by each other, we easily shared them with everyone around us. Even with Beryl, who sat opposite, next to Millie. Berrie asked to come with us to Ireland, and no one, not even Lady Hamilton, could think of a reason not to allow it.

  Once settled and on our way, Peter immediately moved to kiss me. Dear Berrie teased him about asking the driver to hoist her and Millie up on the baggage rack to give us the privacy we obviously wanted. But of course Peter was the gallant gentleman even Beryl knows him to be.

  It was not until we neared the long lane leading up to the manor house that my excitement was dimmed by the reality that Peter would at last see for himself all the evidence of the curse. I was certain Mama would make sure Royboy would not be the first person our guests would meet. But I still found no words to prepare Peter for what he would eventually see.

  When I tried to express my concern to him, he placed a hand on my cheek and told me, with an unwavering smile, “You must not worry. I love you.”

  I leaned into his palm but could not return the smile. “’Tis your love I am wanting to keep.”

  “Do you think it is so fragile?” he asked me. “If it were the other way around and you faced this curse in me, would you be worried your love would suddenly disappear?”

  “No. I know that I will always love you.”

  “Then know the same from me.”

  Before long they had all alighted and been greeted by boys Cosima knew from the village who had obviously been hired as footmen. And there, standing on the stone steps of the manor that had housed Kennesey blood for generations, stood her parents.

  Cosima ran to their open arms, and they pulled her between them for a lung-constricting hug. In the exuberance of the embrace, Cosima lost her hat, and one of the footmen ran after it when it was picked up by the wind. Cosima hardly cared.

  “Papa.” She called him the name she’d used as a child, then looked at her mother saying, “And Mama. How I’ve missed you both!”

  She turned and, with one hand in each parent’s, led them to Peter and Beryl, who stood before the coach. “Mama, Father, this is Miss Beryl Hamilton and her brother, Lord Peter Hamilton, baron.”

  She saw her mother look toward the empty carriage as if expecting someone else to emerge. Perhaps Sir Reginald?

  After polite greetings, they went inside. As Cosima expected, the manor was in full use. They were led to a large room near the front of the manor, one Cosima hadn’t been in since long before she’d left only months ago.

  All of the furniture shrouds were gone, and the green and white room glistened from the labor of a good cleaning and the freshness of a thorough airing. As hats were taken, tea was offered, and soon they sat talking about something more meaningful than the lovely day and the comfort and safety of their journey.

  “Hamilton,” said her father, not in an address but rather as if mulling the name. “Tell me, are you related to Lord Graham Hamilton, viscount?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s my father.”

  Her father’s brows lifted, but she wasn’t sure if he was pleased or dismayed, since some of the color left his ruddy cheeks.

  “Mama, Papa, Lord Hamilton has accompanied me home with the hope of getting to know our family better,” Cosima began slowly, watching her mother’s eyes begin to dance with happiness. “Although I’ve told him about . . . our family . . . he believes we might . . . that is, we’ve been considering the possibility . . .”

  Peter, sitting in the chair closest to her, set aside his tea and reached for her hand. “I’ve come with every intention of marrying your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Escott. Forgive my bluntness, but I’m not as uncertain as Cosima seems to be at the moment.”

  “Marry Cosima?” said her father. “I must say I find it no surprise. I saw the moment Cosima introduced you that she holds you in high esteem. But Cosima will have to advise her mother and me on a few things first.” He gazed at his daughter. “I’m glad Lord Hamilton has presented himself to be blunt. I shall be the same. How is it that you met Lord Hamilton, Cosima, and whatever happened to the bloke you left with?”

  “Please, sir,” said Beryl, “I wonder if I might answer your question? Since we’re being blunt today, may I say I’ve traveled with them two days and they’ve left me out of nearly every conversation? I’ve been with Cosima from the day she arrived in London, so I may know more details than Peter himself. May I?”

  Cosima’s parents looked from Beryl to Cosima, as if for permission, and she gratefully nodded. She enjoyed the sight of her parents listening while drinking her favorite tea. Mama had remembered which to serve.

  Beryl’s voice, so like her mother’s, told the tale as if it were from a Dickens novel. That Cosima’s parents approved already was obvious from the start.

  Cosima would have reveled in it all, from the love she felt to the plans she and Peter hoped to make.

  Except for one thing: Peter had yet to meet Royboy.

  39

  Lying in bed beside Luke, Talie waited to hear her husband’s even breathing. He always fell asleep before her, even prior to the many worries keeping her awake at night these days.

  But tonight the even breathing didn’t come. Instead he seemed more silent than ever, except for an occasional intake of breath.

  “Luke?”

  He turned onto his back. “I’m sor
ry. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I wasn’t asleep. You . . . okay?”

  He lifted his hand to his face, and she realized he’d been crying. “I noticed something tonight when I was putting Ben in his pajamas.” His voice was so steady; maybe she’d been mistaken about the crying. “When he yawned and opened his mouth really wide . . . I saw his palate for the first time. It’s so high, so narrow.” Luke let out another breath, as if he’d been holding it. “I guess I’ve been pretty stupid, Tal. All this time, deep down I didn’t really believe anything was wrong. Like Dana said today, it’s all pretty hard to believe. Even the blood test didn’t convince me. Or the journal. Tonight was the first time I really saw something. Evidence that it’s true: there really is something wrong with him. Something we can’t fix.”

  Talie put her head on his shoulder, and his arms went around her. Tears fell freely from her eyes, dampening his T-shirt. In a moment she felt him tense and shudder with tears of his own for the son they’d thought they had but lost, for the son they did have who was so different from the one they’d thought they knew.

  “Lord—” Luke spoke at last, in a voice that wasn’t steady anymore—“help us in our unbelief; take away our lack of trust in Your goodness and help us to remember You want what’s best for us. That You can give us the strength to get through all and whatever.” He breathed deeply, adding, “God, I want this taken away, for all our sakes. . . . I want to understand . . . but I don’t. . . . ”

  He stopped and Talie joined in. “We need Your strength, Lord, because ours is failing. We know we’re to thank You in all things . . . but this . . . help us, Lord, to find a way.”

  Prayers didn’t end the tears, but Talie felt as though the Holy Spirit was there, crying alongside them.

  After a while, when Talie thought Luke must be sleeping, his quiet voice betrayed him as awake. “Did you ever think of God’s love and goodness? I mean really dwell on those things, Talie?”

  She didn’t answer because at that moment she wondered if she ever had, in some special way that he meant. Lately God’s love seemed hard to hold for long. And His goodness? To her own shame she’d questioned that more than once.