The Oak Leaves (12 page)

Had Cosima been warned she might have to perform, it could very well have ruined her evening before it began. Sitting down, she paused a moment to decide her choice of music. Complicated pieces to showcase her Irish teacher’s best student came instantly to mind, but another thought, not her own, emerged as she looked past Rachel to Lord Peter, who was not far behind.
Pride serves no one.
Certainly not the One she ought to be serving.

And so she chose a simple old ballad, haunting in its melody but rising gradually to a cheerful note. Cosima closed her eyes, pretending she was home again, cocooned in the family drawing room with her parents and Royboy. Royboy rarely stayed long at her side, except when she played the piano or pianoforte. It was one of the few things that made him sit still.

Clapping greeted the end of Cosima’s music, bringing her back to England. She smiled, glancing first at Peter, who looked pleased. Belatedly, she looked at Reginald, who was exuberant in his applause.

She started to rise, but Rachel stepped forward again, waving her back to the piano bench. “You have a delighted audience, Cosima! Of course you must play another. And can you sing?”

Reluctant to be the center of attention much longer, Cosima did not take the seat immediately. Instead she looked again to where Peter and Reginald stood. She knew a wise woman would seek the approval of the man claiming an interest in marrying her, but somehow her gaze went first to Peter. In that moment she saw only warmth, a desire to hear more music.

Cosima sat once again, just as Rachel bent over her with an arm about her shoulder. “Who would have thought Ireland could produce such a pianist?”

“Ireland didn’t,” said another voice from behind Cosima. She didn’t have to look this time; Cosima knew the voice belonged to Walter, Rachel’s older brother, the future duke. “She’s half English, you know.”

Rachel smiled as if the words were light and harmless, but Cosima felt the cut to the land of her birth. Immediately she knew which song to sing.

Her voice was clear and steady, accurately following the tune that flew from her fingertips across the piano keys. If she’d allowed herself more time to consider which song to perform she would have chosen another. But the Gaelic words meant nothing to them, so she sang with assurance.

The applause at the end seemed louder than before, and when Cosima glanced up she saw they’d been joined by the rest of the dinner guests. She stood, avoiding eye contact with Rachel, who might implore her to sing again.

“Cosima.”

Though the room buzzed with conversation, she approached her grandmother at the call.

“You have a lovely voice,” her grandmother said. “I should like it if you would visit again and sing for me. But that song . . . in the language of your homeland. We prefer English, for little good comes from Ireland.”

Cosima swallowed hard. “I believe such words were once said of a Nazarene.”

She heard a gasp from somewhere behind.

The dowager lifted one of her brows, stiffening in her seat. “What did the words of your song mean?”

Cosima folded her hands, letting her gaze fall to the floor. For the barest moment she was tempted to lie, to say she’d been taught the words but not the meaning. She shouldn’t have chosen that song, and now she must pay the price.

“’Tis a lament, milady.”

“Lament? Why should someone your age sing a lament?”

“The song is a prayer, beseeching our loving God to remember the outcast, the downtrodden, because our Savior Himself was cast down by those in power.”

The political ramifications were not lost on the dowager, whose triangle eyes opened wider ever so briefly, as if in shock. But the song had never been political for Cosima. Rather it was a plea for God’s protection of her brother Royboy and others like him, against those healthy society members who tried to take advantage of them. Even if the composer of the lyrics had some hidden political agenda, Cosima knew they had served more as a personal expression.

“Who taught you such a song, child?” demanded Dowager Merit.

“’Twas the composer himself, milady.”

“A dissident, no doubt. Who was it, girl?”

Cosima squared her shoulders. Dissident, indeed. “My father.”

The heavy lids closed altogether for the barest moment, and when they opened again, Dowager Merit looked fatigued. “I had thought to have you stay here with me. But I can see that you need to think about what it would mean for you to have the privilege of living here. For now, it is best for things to remain as they are until I summon you. This visit has come to an end.”

The dowager stood, leaning heavily on her cane, and made her way from the room, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

The Hamilton cloaks were brought first. It must be as clear to others as it was to Cosima: she had ruined the evening.

“We’ll go home the same as we came?” Beryl asked as they made their way to the foyer. Her voice was light as ever, as if nothing unpleasant had taken place.

“No, Beryl,” said her father. Lord Hamilton glanced Cosima’s way. “I would like a word with you, Miss Cosima. Beryl, you and your sister will take the carriage that you and Peter arrived in. I should like to have Peter’s company as well.”

Cosima was ushered into a carriage beside Lady Hamilton. She barely had a chance to say good night to Reginald, who politely patted her hand but his tone revealed his disappointment.

In the carriage, the silence was interrupted only by the pounding in Cosima’s ears, blood pumping too fast and too hard. She realized she’d displeased her grandmother but somehow felt little remorse. However, if she’d also displeased the Hamiltons, that was something she
would
regret. “I am very sorry if my actions have embarrassed you or your family in any way, Lord Hamilton.”

One corner of his mustache twitched. “No, Cosima,” he said gently. He looked more sorrowful than offended. “It’s you who were disserved. First by your own father and then by Reginald and lastly by my family.”

Surprised, Cosima said nothing. How had so many failed her when it was she who’d proven to be an embarrassment?

“I can only surmise your father had his reasons for sparing you the details of his life here in England. Reginald, of course, might be excused from having warned you because he may not be familiar with the family, as certainly I am, or even my wife. Though I must pardon my wife, as she is hesitant to broach topics of the serious sort. Therefore, Cosima, it’s I who must apologize for allowing you to go into a lion’s den, so to speak, ill prepared.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, and indeed she didn’t.

“My son and I,” said Lord Hamilton, glancing at Peter beside him, “have long been a pair of gnats in your grandmother’s ear.”

Lord Peter, directly opposite Cosima, offered her a smile. “We should have asked what you knew of your family, not simply thrust you into their midst and expected you to come out unscathed. Your family is—” He suddenly stopped himself, looking from Cosima to his mother, then to his father and finally back to Cosima. “Here you have it, Cosima—the reason none of us said anything. It’s hard to present information in a gracious light when you’ve few kind words to use.”

“My grandmother can be difficult?”

Lord Hamilton laughed. “Your song, even if only to entertain,
could
have been interpreted with a political tone. And the dowager is staunchly in favor of English supremacy wherever the Crown extends.”

“Your grandmother,” Lord Peter interjected, “once called my father—let’s see if I can recall it correctly—a single, nagging straight hair among a luxurious abundance of curls. She was fairly right in her assessment in that my father will stand for what he believes even when it’s unpopular, but that she spoke in public put a rather visible line in the sand. She likely thinks one of us heretical Hamiltons put you up to singing a song that might be construed as shedding a bad light upon our glorious England.”

“Oh . . . I’m so very sorry to have caused any—”

Lady Hamilton squeezed her hand. “We’re not looking for an apology, my dear. We should have realized that having you stay with us would put you in an uncomfortable position.”

Cosima sighed. “If I’m in an uncomfortable position, then I would say my father set the foundation.”

“We needn’t talk about it any further,” said Peter’s father. “Tomorrow someone else will do something for people to talk about.”

Lady Hamilton nodded. “Yes, put it from your mind, my dear.”

Cosima knew that was far easier said than done.

15

Talie and Luke shared a celebratory breakfast before he went off to work with an especially handsome smile that morning. In about eight months they would have a new addition to the family. After Luke left, Talie made an appointment with her obstetrician, then went about her regular routine: fed and dressed Ben, cleaned a room or two, read him a book, and took him for a walk in the sunshine.

When they returned at midmorning, she changed his diaper then turned on some classical music for Ben to enjoy from his blanket on the floor. As usual, she surrounded him with plush toys and rattles, but he preferred to suck on his finger.

It was time. Time for something she’d planned to do days ago but had put off.

Talie hadn’t mentioned anything to Luke, had even used a bit of subterfuge to collect the phone number she was about to dial. Her mother thought Talie only wanted to check on a few names from the family Bible, verify a date or two.

That was certainly true.

Pulling the scrap of paper with the number on it from a drawer in the kitchen, she noticed her trembling hands. Why be nervous? This was Aunt Virg’s phone number. Her father’s sister-in-law, the woman who’d been married to Talie’s uncle Steve for over forty years, until his death nearly fifteen years ago.

Contact between the two branches of the family remained limited to a Christmas card. It was from one of those that Talie’s mother had scrawled Aunt Virg’s phone number.

Although Talie had met Aunt Virg and Uncle Steve on a couple of occasions when she was a child, she only vaguely remembered them. A dozen years had separated her father from his elder brother, and both age and distance prevented Talie and Dana from getting to know them or their cousins very well.

Talie swallowed once, noticing with some annoyance that her hands hadn’t stopped shaking despite her calming thoughts. She really did want to verify a few names and dates. Besides, she would have something to offer Aunt Virg once Luke made the family tree. Talie could send her a copy.

So why was Talie nervous?

There was no question about it. She had one question for her aunt that she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. Were any of her grandchildren . . . slow?

How could Talie possibly ask such a question?

And yet, touching her flat middle where the miracle of new life was already working, she knew she needed to ask that very thing . . . somehow.

Talie didn’t believe in curses, but she did believe in genetics. If there had been something in Cosima’s genetics a hundred and fifty years ago, could it somehow have survived all these years?

Talie shook her head. Of course it hadn’t. She and Dana were living proof that nothing was wrong genetically. Her father had been fine as well, and so had his brother. And although Talie had only met her cousins a few times when she was a child, she didn’t recall any of them having cognitive problems. Each one was proof that Cosima’s so-called curse had died a long time ago.

Aunt Virg would probably be delighted to talk about her family. And she would likely welcome any information Talie could give about her husband’s family line . . . provided Talie left out details of Rowena and what she had done.

Talie dialed the number.

“Hello?” The voice sounded frail but loud.

“Aunt Virg? This is Talie Ingram . . . although you might remember me as Talie Martin, your niece from Chicago.”

“Chicago? Oh, Talie . . . Natalie, is that you?”

She closed her eyes in relief, remembering Aunt Virg calling her by her full name, the way she’d called her own daughter Elizabeth instead of Liz, as everyone else addressed her. At least Talie wouldn’t have to introduce herself as if she were a stranger.

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”

“Oh, fair to middlin’, as they say. Can’t complain since I’m seventy-eight and still kicking.”

“I’m glad to hear that. My mother said from your last Christmas card that it sounded as if you liked your new place. I hope that’s still true?”

“I do. Don’t tell anyone, but it’s really an old folks home.” She laughed and the sound was instantly familiar. It pierced Talie’s ear. “Watch yourself, sweetie; it happens before you know it. Old age! But, still, it’s nice here. If I don’t feel like cooking, I just go downstairs to the cafeteria. Of course, the food isn’t very good, but the people make up for it. We complain together. Suffering’s always better in community, you know.”

Talie laughed. This wasn’t so hard, was it? Aunt Virg was as friendly as ever.

“I’m calling because I’m putting together a family tree from my dad’s side. A genealogy record. I have quite a few names from past generations, but I don’t know many details from Uncle Steve’s branch. I’m looking for birth dates for your kids and spouses’ and children’s names too.”

“Goodness! I know the names, but I’m not sure I can get all the dates straight on any of them except my own. I’ll have to ask Elizabeth to help me on that, and we can send a list to you. Would that be all right?”

Squashing her disappointment in the reasonableness of the request, Talie knew she had to find a way to keep the conversation going. “That would be great . . . but just so I know how much room I’ll be needing, could you tell me a little about your family? I know you and Uncle Steve had four children—two daughters and two sons. Did they all marry?”

“Yes, some time ago now.”

Surely if her cousins were responsible enough to marry they were as healthy as Dana and herself. That was a good start. “And did they have children?”

“Oh yes. I have seventeen grandchildren, last count.” She laughed again, and Talie held the phone a little farther away before pressing it back when Aunt Virg started talking again. “But that’s not likely to change since my children are all done having their own kids. They’re grandparents themselves.”

“So of the seventeen grandchildren, some of them are great-grandchildren?”

“Oh no. I have four great-grandchildren and another on the way.”

Talie doodled a rectangle around Aunt Virg’s phone number to keep her fingers employed, even though they were no longer shaking. She was calmer by the moment. “Sounds like the Martin branches will be bigger than I expected. Would you like a copy of the information when I’ve compiled it?”

“That would be lovely. I’m sure the family would like to see it too.”

A new thought struck Talie. “Perhaps I could compile a notebook of some sort, listing some of the occupations for the adults and activities that the kids are involved in. I could name hobbies . . . awards . . . that sort of thing.”

“Marvelous, Natalie! What a lovely idea for family posterity. I’m sure Elizabeth could help you in that area, too. My, my, it would be too hard for me to remember all of the things my grandkids are involved in. Of course they all love sports, boys and girls alike. Baseball, basketball, soccer—you name it. They all played one thing or another.”

Talie’s heart floated. Hand-eye coordination didn’t come naturally to everyone. “Sounds like a healthy bunch.”

“Oh yes. Our family has been blessed with excellent health, thank the Lord. Though I think one grandson had asthma, but he grew out of it and now he’s on his college volleyball team.”

“College, yes . . .” Eager to continue in this vein, she tried to keep excitement from her voice. “Let’s see . . . I suppose I could list various educations. Have all your grandkids gone on to college, then?”

“All but one, and he’s graduating high school this year.”

“Does he plan to go?”

“Yes, he’s been accepted at New York University. Won’t this be quite some family ledger if you plan to include all that? Very generous of you, Natalie. And what about Uncle Henry’s bunch? Do you recall your father having an Uncle Henry?”

Talie’s mind raced at the unexpected help. Maybe she could save herself another phone call. “I never met him, but I do have a Henry Grayson listed, and I was going to ask if you knew someone I should call. He passed away . . . some time ago.”

“Yes, over thirty years ago now. He had three young ones as far as I know. Well, they’re hardly young anymore! Did you know one of his kids went on to be a congressman? One of your father’s cousins. Retired now, though.”

“Perhaps Elizabeth can send me information on them, if you have any.”

“I’m sure she can. They haven’t been as numerous as my bunch, but between politics and big business ventures I guess they were too busy to have so many kids.”

“But they’re all healthy, as far as you know?”

Aunt Virg hesitated. Maybe Talie had gone too far, been too obvious.

“Oh yes. Well, other than poor Abigail, your father’s cousin from Henry. Lung cancer, you know. And young when she died—just fifty-eight.”

Talie had never before welcomed the word
cancer,
though at the moment she found herself doing just that. “There is one more name I’m not familiar with, Aunt Virg. Did you know Ellen Dana?”

“Hmm . . . oh yes, of course. Such a sad story there, really.”

Talie’s buoyant heart refused to be stilled. Sad story? How sad could it be if every other member of her extended family was healthy?

But Aunt Virg was talking, and Talie made herself listen again. “Ellen Dana was your grandmother’s sister. When their mother died, your grandmother was around seventeen, with plans for college. Ellen Dana was younger, maybe around ten or so; I’m not sure. Their father didn’t think he should have such a young girl in the house without a mother. Things were different in those days, you know. When your grandmother went off to college, he sent Ellen Dana to a boarding school. I really don’t recall the details, and she died rather young. Pneumonia, I think. Or was it polio? That was before I came into the family. I never met her. Did your father ever mention his aunt Ellen?”

“Only that my sister, Dana, is named for her.”

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten. That was a lovely sentiment.”

“So you never met Ellen Dana, then? Or knew where she went to school?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t. Steve never spoke of that aunt. To be honest I’m not sure he even met her.”

Talie looked down at her list. “I have the date of her death . . . 1941. I think that’s the same year my father was born.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Natalie. He was twelve years younger than my Steve, and he was born in ’28.” She sighed. “I suppose that’s why Martha mentioned the name Ellen Dana to your father. Maybe she thought they had some kind of connection . . . you know, her dying and him being born the same year.”

“Maybe she did.” Talie knew she’d found out all she could for now. She cleared her throat. “I suppose it would be a lot of work for Elizabeth to compile some of this information. Will she have time to do such a thing?”

Aunt Virg’s laugh punctured Talie’s eardrum again. “If you knew Elizabeth, you wouldn’t even ask. That one is so organized I’m sure she has every name and date, hobby and college recorded on that computer of hers. Whatever she doesn’t know offhand she’ll get through that e-mail you young folks do all the time.”

“Sounds perfect,” Talie said.

“Let me write down your address and have Elizabeth send you what you’re looking for. What a nice call, Natalie! I’m sure Elizabeth will be thrilled to help.”

Talie wouldn’t call herself thrilled, but
outrageously relieved
was close enough.