The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  “It occurred to me, Luke, that you . . . well, you’re a very attractive man.”

  He smiled and raised his brows. “And that’s hard to say?”

  She shook her head, not calmed by his easy attitude. She knew he was grappling with everything; that had been clear last night. But somehow he was able to get around it better than she and appear as if he had the strength to face the days. She would miss that strength.

  “You know how I feel about you, Luke. You’re it for me. But I . . . I was thinking, because of fragile X . . . maybe I’m not it for you. Or maybe I shouldn’t be.”

  “What do you mean?” He was still eating. The topic hadn’t made an impact.

  “I mean maybe you shouldn’t have married me. Maybe you should get out while you’re still young and start over with someone who can give you healthy children. Someone who isn’t a carrier of a disease.”

  Luke’s mouth momentarily dropped open, revealing a half-chewed portion of burger. He shut it instantly then dropped the handful of fries suspended midway from the tabletop. “What are you talking about, Tal?”

  She turned from him because she couldn’t look at him anymore, at his concern and confusion and love so obvious in his eyes. She didn’t deserve him; there was no doubt about that. And he deserved so much more than she could give him.

  Talie raised a hand to her face, surprised to find it wet. Before she could answer his question he rose and came to her, lifting her into his embrace. His arms felt familiar around her, secure and welcome and exactly what she needed.

  Luke held her tight, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Talie, Talie,” he whispered.

  She couldn’t speak. She had planned to say many things. But none of them came out. She just sobbed in his arms.

  He stroked her hair, then pulled back and raised her face to his. “I love you, Talie. You used to know what that means. What about our vows? Good times and bad, sickness and health. What kind of love do you think I have? So shallow I’m going to bail out?”

  “I only know you deserve better than what I’m bringing to this marriage.”

  He held her at arm’s length. “What are you talking about, Talie? Why should something you have no control over, something you had no choice in, outweigh all the other things we have? We were born with two halves of the same brain, remember? Can’t separate that.”

  “But it’s your brain I’m thinking of, Luke!” She was calmer now. The tears had stopped. “You deserve to have children, sons just like you.”

  “Oh, come on, nobody can guarantee that. What if we had daughters? Think any of them would be like me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not in the way you’re imagining—some little clone walking around here who could inherit all my best traits—even if we have perfectly healthy boys. That’s never a guarantee, Tal, even without a genetic disease. Aidan is proof of that; remember his story? Besides, who knows what’s in my genes? Maybe I’m a candidate for cancer or diabetes or stroke or something. Maybe I’ll die young, and you’ll think you never should have married me because you signed up for a long life together.”

  She stared at him, none of his protests making an impact. “Maybe you should follow your own advice and get out while you’re still young.”

  He gazed down at her. “My own advice?” He paused. “That’s what this is all about? My advice to Aidan.”

  She didn’t deny it. That was, after all, the truth.

  “Talie, I had reasons for what I said to Aidan.”

  “Of course you did. He wants healthy children, and you know how much it hurts not to have that happen.”

  “Yes, that’s part of it.” He let go of her, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting, resting his forearms on his knees, looking at the floor. “All through church this morning I asked myself why I gave Aidan that advice.” He offered a grim smile. “Now that this has come up, it’s almost as if God was trying to tell me something, so I’d be prepared to give you a coherent answer. And I do have answers, Talie. It might have something to do with how hard this has been for us, but that’s not all. Aidan’s faith is still new. What if he decides God isn’t protecting him the way he expected? I think he knows Christians aren’t automatically excused from pain and suffering—otherwise it wouldn’t take any faith at all to come to God, just logic—but I don’t know if I’d add such a heavy decision as this to someone whose faith isn’t even a year old.”

  Luke stood again and took Talie into his arms again, rubbing her back. “Besides, I couldn’t have told Aidan to go ahead and marry Dana even if I wanted to. That would be adding peer pressure to his pros-and-cons list. And I’m not going to judge him if he does decide to get out. In fact, by my telling him to do that he’ll have to be more certain if he does stay in this relationship. If he asks her to marry him, it won’t be because others think he’s unchristian or some kind of schmuck to get out now. I did it to strengthen whatever decision he makes, not to hurt Dana.”

  Tears filled Talie’s eyes again. “Earlier, you sounded so logical. All logic and no love.”

  “You know I get that way sometimes. . . . Like I said when I told you to read the journal, I can’t live up to Peter Hamilton.”

  “That . . . that was part of my thinking, Luke. Maybe you don’t want to. I’m giving you an out so you don’t have to.”

  He held her at arm’s length. “But I want to, Talie. I want to be noble and faithful; it’s just not easy. Not as easy as it seemed to your great-great-great-grandfather.”

  “I don’t think it was easy,” she said. “Not at the time. Not for any of them . . . I read Cosima’s guilt and identified with that right away.”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t about either guilt or setting a bar so high no one could reach it. It was about rising above all that. Faith above fear.”

  “I guess I saw the guilt more than you did because I fell into the same trap myself.”

  Luke put a hand on each side of her face. “Your guilt and my fears of not living up to expectations will get us into trouble, Talie. We’ll have to remember that—both of us—when it comes to Ben. I love you. I’m not bailing out. I love Ben, too. How could I leave either one of you?” He brought one hand to the child growing in her womb. “Or this one? We don’t know the reasons for any of this, Talie, but we do know the facts. God gave us these two kids, and we’re meant to raise them. With His help. And we will. Together.”

  46

  Just a short time ago I believed my heart might never again beat at a normal pace. Even now, my breathing remains erratic. It is my hope that by recording what took place tonight, revisiting the event while knowing the outcome, I might better realize the truth that God’s hand never left us. Not for a moment.

  Although we had not formally agreed to meet Reginald, there was really no question that we would go. I met Peter at the top of the stairs at eleven o’clock. Everyone else had withdrawn for the night, and the manor house was quiet and dark except for the few high sconces my mother insists upon keeping lit. Oftentimes Royboy wakes during the night, and it is easier to go after him with a light showing the way.

  I could not suppress a breathless laugh. . . .

  “If either of our parents knew we were out here, they’d see us wed on the morrow instead of next spring.”

  Peter drew her into his arms. “Then perhaps we should make a little noise.”

  Cosima couldn’t laugh again though she might have. Peter’s mouth came down on hers just as her arms went around him.

  It wouldn’t have been much of a scandal, headed as they were to her father’s library rather than any improper place. But there was something exciting in the atmosphere, in the quietness and secrecy. And she had to admit that as the time approached to speak to Reginald at last, she had grown more curious. Was that all he wanted—to preserve his friendship with them? It seemed impossible to honor that request, not when Reginald’s motives seemed more driven by greed than affection.

  The library door creaked as
Cosima opened it. Single sounds always seemed magnified at night. Peter stepped in front of her and pushed the door the rest of the way.

  The room was dimly lit with two lamps in opposite directions. One, her father’s favorite reading lamp, stood tall from the floor behind the comfortably cushioned leather chair in the corner.

  The other oil lamp sat upon her father’s large mahogany desk. It was here Reginald sat, in her father’s high-backed chair. Reginald’s blond hair was the only bright spot in the shadows, his head rising only two-thirds as high as her father’s would. Reginald looked something like a child, playing at being a grown-up.

  “Welcome,” he said as if this were his library. He stood, walking around the desk and stopping in front of it. “I knew you would come.”

  The room wasn’t as large as most others in the manor house. Books lined only one wall, the desk another, a settee and pair of chairs nearby. Two smaller shelves with plants sat on either side of the door directly behind Cosima and Peter. Though they were only four or five paces apart, Cosima couldn’t see Reginald’s eyes clearly. She saw only the whiteness of his teeth behind his smile.

  “You said you wanted to reestablish our friendship—” Peter’s voice was terse—“but I’m not at all sure that’s possible, Reginald.”

  Reginald laughed, only he didn’t appear amused or surprised by Peter’s words. He sounded odd, uneven somehow. He walked back behind the desk, turning from them to the window. During the day her father took advantage of the natural light while he worked, but now it was dark, and Cosima caught a glimpse of Reginald’s reflection, broken by wooden muntins.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here to do . . . something . . . something very important.” He swayed for a moment, as if he were dizzy, but then steadied himself with one hand pressed to the glass. His other hand slid beneath his jacket, dis-appearing from Cosima’s reflected view.

  She wondered what task he had in mind. Maybe achieving his goal, whatever that proved to be, would bring him back to his old self. Obviously reestablishing his friendship with Peter wasn’t all he had on his mind. “Perhaps we can help you.”

  His shoulders shook after she spoke, as with laughter or tears. He turned toward them, and with his face now illumined by the lamp on the desk, Cosima saw his gaze was lit with mirth. When he collected himself, his smile was more of a smirk than a friendly gesture. He no longer looked himself.

  He slowly withdrew his hand from under his jacket. Cosima watched, at first curious about the shiny object between his fingers. Then horrified.

  A pistol, held loosely in Reginald’s hands, caught the light. Not aimed anywhere, merely held as if it were an object of some interest. And indeed it was.

  Instantly Peter moved forward, hands outstretched as if to take the weapon away. “What are you doing with that?” He stopped when Reginald waved the small gun their way, though not directly at either Peter or Cosima.

  Reginald chuckled. “Protecting your ladylove, Peter? No need.” He moved away from the desk, stopping in front of the settee, where both Cosima and Peter were in his full view.

  Cosima watched, transfixed by the weapon in his unsteady hands.

  When Peter moved again, putting himself between Reginald and her, Reginald shook his head as if Peter’s behavior were unnecessary. “I did not come here to kill her, my friend. No, no. I merely wanted witnesses.”

  Then he aimed the narrow, shiny barrel at his own head. He held the gun straight and sure, as if to pull the trigger.

  Peter lurched forward, but Reginald stumbled back, out of reach, quickly regaining firm footing.

  Reginald grinned as his brows lifted. He swung the pistol around, facing Cosima as he took two steps nearer.

  Peter pulled her away, so that they were now in the center of the room and Reginald nearest the door.

  “Or perhaps I should kill Cosima.” Reginald smirked, looking at Peter. “Sentence you to a life without her. Surely there would be some satisfaction in that.”

  “Reginald, if you think you’ve been the spurned lover, think again,” Peter said. “Cosima was never really yours—”

  “Do you think I do this because of her?” Reginald’s voice took on a higher pitch, almost as if it belonged to someone else. “She was mine, yes—but only as a tool, Peter. A tool to use against you.”

  Reginald took a single step closer, waving the gun between the two of them. It was ivory handled, Cosima noted, its barrel short and silver. Cosima had never seen anything so small yet so terrifying.

  “You have no inkling, have you, Peter? All these years, you’ve believed a lie.” Reginald used the pistol as an extension of his hand, pointing from Cosima to Peter as if the gun were nothing more than a harmless finger. “You should realize something about this man you hope to marry, Cosima.” His eyes grew more gleeful by the moment. “He fails to see the worst in people—even when it outweighs the best. This, contrary to what someone of your sensibilities might believe, is a great flaw.” He straightened and pointed the small, deadly barrel directly at Peter. “You see, it’s landed him here today, with lives in jeopardy. Even yours.” He swung the gun her way.

  “Reginald—” Peter raised his hand, taking a step toward Reginald.

  “Be still!” Reginald commanded, tripping backward. His grip on the gun doubled with both hands on the hilt. “Hear me out, Peter. You’ll let me tell you the truth at last.”

  “Tell me, Reg.” Peter’s voice was calm, almost gentle. Cosima spared a glance from the gun to Peter, struggling to mimic his control. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  Reginald shook his head. “No, Peter. You don’t. But I fully intend to tell you anyway. I can say it now. The truth is, I’m no friend to you. Never have been.” He smiled, and for the barest second he looked like his old self again, friendly and calm.

  “That’s not true, Reg. You and I have shared good times, worked together, helped others.”

  “But I’ve hated you.” One brief laugh punctuated the statement. “All this time I’ve hated you—only you never knew.”

  “That can’t be true, Reg. I don’t believe it.”

  He waved the gun again. “What more can it take, Peter? Here I stand with a gun pointed at you and your ladylove, and you still don’t believe the worst of me? Foolish.” He cocked his head Peter’s way but looked at Cosima as if to label Peter in her mind.

  His gaze returned to Peter. “Let me help convince you, my friend. Do you remember Nan? Of course you do; you almost wed her.” Reginald looked at Cosima again. “You should thank me for this, Cosima. Had I not acted, Peter might not have been available for you.”

  Cosima glanced at Peter, but his gaze was riveted on Reginald. Her mind jumped to what Beryl had told her long ago, her suspicion that Reginald had paid a man to seduce Nan away from Peter. Perhaps Beryl was right.

  “It was so easy,” Reginald said, as if recalling a favorite memory. “I knew I wasn’t handsome enough to do it, but it wasn’t hard to find that young man, clean him up, buy him a fine suit of clothes, and school him in the fine art of limited talking. Then I threw them together—much as I threw you and Peter together, Cosima. Results are so predictable when you put two healthy, physically appealing people together. Of course, they should both have some sort of need to fill. That’s where you made it easy, Peter. You didn’t fill Nan’s needs. I don’t know why—perhaps it wasn’t your fault. Perhaps it was Nan’s nature. Vain enough to enjoy the attention of any handsome man.”

  He looked at Cosima again. “In all fairness to Nan, I should tell you it was only a kiss that ended her future with this Hamilton heir. One kiss, so perfectly timed I knew then how brilliant I was. I had invited Peter and his father, of course, to Hyde Park for an early morning ride. I needed him there at a precise time, you see. In time to witness his fiancée and my hired man holding hands as they strolled. The kiss was an added, unexpected bonus.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you orchestrated that, Reginald,” Peter
said. “I’ve awakened many a morning grateful that marriage did not take place—even before I met Cosima.”

  “But you didn’t realize it until Nan was seduced by another man. One I set up!”

  Peter said nothing, only nodded, and Cosima breathed again. Best to keep Reginald appeased.

  “And now here is Cosima.” Reginald’s tone was once again affable. “My strategy worked yet again. Put two attractive, healthy—well, healthy is not the correct word in Cosima’s case. But when I put you together, you followed the plan as if under my direction.”

  Abruptly, he wagged the gun back and forth between Peter and Cosima. “It was all my doing, putting you together. Only you were supposed to come away with me, both of you, to Gretna Green. You were supposed to marry before Peter knew about the curse, so there would be no way out. You were to come back to Hamilton Hall with the marriage already consummated so that even your narrow-minded parents would wait to see if the first of your feebleminded children could be growing in her belly. They may have insisted on a divorce despite their declared faith and convinced you that was best. But my hope, my design, was that your legacy, Peter, might be feebleminded children.”

  Reginald guffawed, as if he’d told a monumental jest. At last he stopped to breathe deeply, and his eyes shone with that uncanny brightness, the sparkle of a tear in one eye. He stared at Peter, blond brows lifted. “Only here you are, Peter, knowing everything and ready to proceed. That,” he added, “was not my design. I really only wanted to kill your legacy. But now you make me want to kill you, too.”

  “Why, Reg?” Peter asked, and Cosima knew he was as bewildered as she.

  Reginald took a step back, stopping abruptly as if surprised when he hit the door. The gun barely quivered, however, so secure was it in his hand. Aimed at Peter’s heart.

  If Reginald heard Peter’s plea for understanding, he chose to ignore it. He faced Cosima. “I knew about you all along, Cosima. About Royboy and Percy and your aunt . . . everything. I knew before I ever sent my man to inquire about your hand. Rachel told me.”