by Maureen Lang
It also depends on whether the carrier is male or female. As Talie learned, every child born to a female carrier has a fifty-fifty chance of receiving the affected gene. (The children who receive the fragile X gene might be cognitively affected or might simply be unaffected carriers.) A male carrier, like Cosima’s son Kipp, who is himself unaffected by the gene will pass on carrier status to all of his daughters. His sons will be free of the disorder altogether. It’s never been documented that a father can produce a child who is a full mutation (that is, severely affected). Therefore, any children Cosima’s carrier son (Kipp) would have had would have been cognitively unaffected. It could conceivably have taken another two or three generations for the mutation to show up again, and that is what is portrayed in The Oak Leaves: It affected Ellen Dana Grayson, then disappeared until Ben was diagnosed.
From On Sparrow Hill
* * *
The wooden box didn’t easily open. Despite having been tucked away in an environmentally regulated place, the ancient varnish seemed glued shut from having been closed so long. Gently, Rebecca rocked the lid until it loosened.
“There.” She glanced at Quentin without removing the wooden top. “Shall I, or would you care to do the honors?”
“Afraid of Pandora’s box?” Quentin teased.
“Not at all. I simply don’t want to steal the moment of excitement. It’s your family’s history.”
Quentin shrugged. “I confess I’ll be interested to contact this American relative who inspired our search, but beyond that I haven’t nearly the fascination for the past that you—and the American, I presume—have. Lift it.”
Rebecca obeyed. Inside, tied as neatly as the classic volumes with which it had been stored, lay a stack of letters. The one on top was addressed in a neat, feminine script. To Cosima Hamilton.
“Not from your great-great-great-grandmother, but to her,” Rebecca said. She realized she’d reverently whispered only after the words left her mouth.
“From whom?”
Untying the ribbon, Rebecca gently opened the yellowed envelope. Whatever wax had once sealed it had long since dried, leaving behind only a faintly blue shade on the tip that any wax had ever been present.
“ ‘Loving greetings from Berrie,’ it begins.” Rebecca looked up again. “That must be Beryl Hamilton, your great-great-great-grandfather’s sister. A note on a recipe from Cosima called her sister-in-law Berrie.”
“Are they all from her?”
Rebecca carefully glanced through some of the other envelopes. “The handwriting appears to be the same. I believe so.”
“Read one,” Quentin invited.
Rebecca glanced down the page of the hefty letter, seeing the writing clear and apparently flawless. “It goes into some detail.”
“Let me,” he said, reaching for the letter and setting aside his cup. “It’s the only way I can prove to you I’m not bored by the topic, historical though it is, and at the same time give you a chance to eat.”
Rebecca put the letter into his outstretched hand, took a bite of the creamy chicken, then pushed it away and settled back in her chair.
She knew exactly what Beryl Hamilton had looked like and suspected Quentin remembered her portrait too. It hung in the gallery, next to the one of Christabelle and her brother Nathan Hamilton.
Berrie was forever young in Rebecca’s mind, and lovely too. With dark hair like her oldest brother, Peter, Berrie had the kind of hair Rebecca wished she had. Instead of errant curls, Berrie’s looked smooth and obedient. She didn’t have Peter’s dark brown eyes; rather, Berrie had unimaginably blue ones that had somehow survived all the way down the line to reside in Quentin today.
Rebecca had no trouble whatsoever imagining Berrie Hamilton writing that letter.
April 6, 1854
My Dear Cosima,
Do you recall I once feared most that I should find myself before the judgment seat of God with an unlit lamp? There I might have stood, having been ordained with some talent—surely I had one, I convinced myself of that—and yet not using that with which I had been blessed.
Yesterday, with only the first of the many students I hope to house, I proved the depth of my incompetence. And ’twas with your own, sweet brother Royboy! Did I think I would make a difference? Did I believe I knew what I was doing? . . .