The Oak Leaves (18 page)

25

“I received a call that a book I requested through interlibrary loan is here.”

The woman behind the counter at the Glenview Public Library smiled and asked for Talie’s last name, then turned to a shelf behind the counter where books were tagged. “Here you are. Will you be looking for other books today, or will this be it?”

“This is it.” Talie presented her card as she noted the size of the book she’d ordered. Old and small, hardly bigger than a pamphlet. But it wouldn’t take much to find what she was looking for.

Instead of leaving the library when the transaction was completed, Talie went to the reference section and took a seat. She’d spent a week online and calling New York records offices trying to find details of a place called Engleside, a school for girls that had closed more than forty years ago. Here it was before her. The school connected to the manor house where Ellen Dana Grayson had died.

The cover of the Engleside pamphlet was hidden by the interlibrary loan paperwork, which Talie gently slid aside. Beneath was a black-and-white photograph of a girl. She was seated on a chair and looking ahead, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Her long, dark hair was pulled neatly away from her face and fell past her shoulders. Dressed in what must have been white or some other light color, she appeared to be the picture of genteel youth.

Talie looked at the caption describing the old photograph.

We shall call the subject of this report Mary Thornton, although her actual name is confidential. In Mary’s story you will see the success of Engleside, for Mary is the triumph of how far the feebleminded may go.

Feebleminded.
The word stuck in Talie’s brain, echoing as if the inside of her head were as empty as a canyon.
Feebleminded.

Engleside was a home for children no one else wanted. A thinly disguised institution. A mental ward for the feebleminded.

Talie scanned the pamphlet’s brief table of contents: Observations of the Feebleminded; Average Length of Stay at Engleside; After Engleside, Returning to Family.

She flipped through the pages, barely breathing as she skimmed some of the text.

The healthy infant finds a human face, whether his mother’s or otherwise, to be an object of some fascination. While he will study the whole face, he will peer directly into the eyes of someone smiling and speaking gently to him. One of the earliest signs of a feeble mind is a lack of direct eye contact, lack of this fascination for the human face.

Talie raised a fist to her lips, pressing hard to keep back a cry. She forced herself to glance at another page.

Most common observations: In infants, lack of coordination, difficulty rolling over and/or crawling, late walker, clumsy gait. In older children, difficulties with language production, both receptive and expressive. Often agitated, accompanied by flapping of hands.

Talie put the pamphlet down, pushing it closed as if the words were an affront, a conscious attempt to prove everything she longed to deny. Obviously Cosima’s curse had found its way to the twentieth century.

Had it found its way to the twenty-first as well? to Ben?

Talie rushed from the reference section toward the door, pausing only long enough to shove the pamphlet into the return slot. She’d learned more than she wanted to know.

In the car, Talie tried to slip the key in the ignition. The key chain fell from her unsteady grasp, but instead of reaching for it somewhere near her feet, she clutched the steering wheel. Sudden, unstoppable sobs erupted.

She didn’t know how long the tears racked her body, but eventually they eased. Talie wiped her face with her hands, looking for a tissue but finding none in her purse. She grabbed a paper towel she kept in a bag beneath the passenger seat and blew her nose. Then, aware her car wasn’t as private as she wished, she found her keys at last.

This had nothing to do with Ben. How could it? Everyone else in her family was fine, along with all those first
and
second cousins on her uncle’s side of the family.

Forcing herself to breathe easier, she patted her middle, where tiny new life grew. “Guess I’m just a little vulnerable to emotional upheavals these days,” she said as if the baby could hear and understand. “But I’ll stop being so silly now. I know what we have to do. We have to face this head-on. No more denying what might or might
not
be there. Your daddy will agree it’s best to have your brother looked at by a specialist. See if there really is something wrong or if Ben’s just the late bloomer our pediatrician claims him to be. That’s the only way to put an end to this roller coaster.”

She drove out of the library parking lot. “Besides, I don’t have time for all this crying. We have more errands to run. The grocery store, but first . . . the frame shop.” Luke had dropped off the finished family tree a month ago, and the shop had called nearly a week ago to say that the job was complete.

Talie wasn’t sure what had helped more—releasing all the tension through her tears or making the decision about seeing a specialist. Whatever it was, she felt better already.

At the framers, Talie gasped when she saw the finished product, complete in the double matting. Luke had teased her about the oak tree being the strongest wood available. An oak frame for an oak family tree. Durable, the best to represent such a long family line. In this frame his work was true art.

Her gaze was drawn to those names near the base of the trunk. Royboy. Willie. Was it her imagination or did certain leaves stand out? Rowena . . . Cosima . . . Ellen . . .

Talie paid the framer and let him wrap it, then left the shop and carefully placed the picture in her trunk.

An hour later, Talie stood in the grocery checkout line, absently looking at the magazines on the rack while she waited her turn. With so many groceries in her cart, she knew the self-checkout lines would be a disaster, so there was little choice but to wait.

A woman took the spot in line behind Talie. She had a little girl clinging to her leg and a baby strapped into the attached seat on the cart. All three of them were impeccably dressed, from ribbons in the girl’s hair to designer shoes and socks on the baby boy. Judging by the wear on the little leather shoes, the boy could walk even though he was obviously younger than Ben.

Out of the corner of her eye, Talie noticed the mother had the same bored look common to those waiting, except when her daughter whined and irritation replaced her blank stare.

“Get off of me, Dorrie,” she said, but the child didn’t move. In fact, she seemed to adhere tighter, until the mother peeled her away.

“I want a candy bar, Mommy. And so does Sam. That makes two candy bars. ’Cause I get one, and he gets one. And one plus one equals two. Did you hear me, Mommy? One plus one equals two. So can I get two? Can I?”

“No, Dorrie. Now be quiet.”

Talie heard rather than saw the exchange. The little girl couldn’t be much older than three, but she was already adding. No fear anyone in her family might be feebleminded.

And that mother didn’t rejoice in her daughter’s accomplishment one bit.

Rage surged in Talie.
It’s not fair, Lord. She gets two healthy kids, two kids who can walk and cling. She doesn’t have a worry in the world about their futures. And she doesn’t even appreciate it!

Talie swallowed hard and pressed her stomach again, squelching the urge to shake the woman. Demand she be thankful there weren’t any bad genetics in
her
family.

Instead, Talie lifted yet another prayer that both her children would be okay. That a visit to the doctor would prove this to be true.

Then she finished unloading her cart, blinking away her tears.

26

I suppose I am a bit odd in my penchant for remembering the past. At least, I know of no others my age who seem to do so as often as I do. Yet I feel that those who went before us have so much to teach. Lessons that I must remember for myself and for, God willing, any children I may bear. If I have one who is capable of learning, I shall at least be equipped to pass on something of value. At times, as now, it is clear to me that I do want children, and yet it is that very possibility that frightens me most.

Much of the time I refuse to dwell on what I shall do with my penchant for recording what I have learned. Instead, my days pass in the pleasant company of Beryl and Christabelle and their mother.Yesterday morning I sat in the upstairs parlor sharing tea with Lady Hamilton while Beryl and Christabelle were busy with a final fitting with their seamstress. A servant arrived, in his gloved hand a silver tray, upon which sat a pair of embossed envelopes. I had seen many social announcements delivered this way. No doubt Beryl and Christabelle would be interested to know from whom the latest invitation had come. . . .

“This one is for you, Cosima,” said Lady Hamilton, and Cosima looked up in surprise. On all of the occasions Mr. Fisher had delivered invitations, nary a one had been for her. Until now.

She recognized the Escott name immediately. She saw it was a handwritten card requesting her presence for dinner the following night, Wednesday, an evening free of parliamentary sessions. Without the customary phrase
hoping for the pleasure of one’s company,
the note was little more than a summons.

“For dinner with Dowager Merit,” she said somewhat tremulously. The thought of facing her in her formidable home again made Cosima instantly meek.

“Mine as well,” said Lady Hamilton, waving it once in the air. “For all of us.”

“May I respond for you, Lady Hamilton?” Cosima inquired. If they were all invited . . . would they
all
attend?

“Of course. No one refuses the dowager,” she added with a grin.

Excitement found its way to Cosima’s heart, despite herself. Surely that included Peter.

And yet Cosima wished the invitations were from someone else. If Lady Hamilton couldn’t refuse Dowager Merit, neither could Cosima. This was undoubtedly the very thing Reginald anticipated. Perhaps this was enough sign that marrying her would pay the dividends he hoped.

* * *

Cosima had been saving a favorite gown for a special occasion and decided to wear it to the Escott dinner. She told herself it was because she wanted to look her very best for her grandmother. If there was a rift between her and Cosima, it was due to Cosima’s unacceptable behavior on the first night they met. She was determined to make up for it and would begin by presenting herself in the best possible manner, starting with her favorite gown.

Rather than the customary white reserved for formal balls, this silk was neither blue nor green but somewhere in between and shimmered in candlelight. The color reminded Cosima of home, of endless rolling hills that glowed after a rainfall. The high, straight neckline was modest while still exposing her shoulders. A narrow waistline came to a point in the center, accentuating her feminine figure. Below that the top layer of silk opened from waist to floor, revealing an underskirt embroidered with tiny blue flowers and green leaves.

Cosima added the single emerald her mother had insisted she bring.

Millie worked tirelessly on Cosima’s hair until each curl obeyed her fingers. Then, with only a touch of clear powder, Cosima was ready.

“You are lovely, miss,” admired Millie.

“Still, I’m taking this along to remind me of the other blood that flows in me—the best of the Kenneseys’.” Cosima held up her reticule, in which rested the ancient wood-and-iron cross that reminded her she could withstand anything so long as her trust was in the right place. All and whatever.

Soon she was in a carriage with Lady Hamilton and her two daughters. No interference from Beryl tonight as to how they traveled to the Escott town house. Beryl had merely smiled at Cosima and hugged her, whispering something about how courageous she was to wear such a lovely color gown.

The Escott town house was lit from top to bottom, aglow in the dim light of dusk. Footmen appeared from both directions to assist them from the carriages and lead them through the open doors.

Cosima had barely noticed the foyer the last time she had been there, too nervous over meeting her relatives for the first time. Now she saw that the entryway boasted wealth and history. Gold was the dominant feature—gold knickknacks on carved side tables, gold candelabras hanging from above, gold edging on the woodwork.

Peter and Lord Hamilton arrived, Reginald trailing them by mere moments. They had all made it precisely on time, as if they were as aware as Cosima that tonight was a second—perhaps final—chance for her to please Dowager Merit.

Once their party was complete, the butler showed them to the same large drawing room they’d been presented in weeks ago. The room wasn’t full, as some cousins seemed to be missing. Dowager Merit sat in her familiar thronelike chair and received their greetings graciously, even if her manner was a bit tepid.

Cosima chose each word carefully. She purposely avoided Peter the same way he seemed to avoid her. It wouldn’t do to lose her head and say something silly because of being flustered by a man who was not her intended.

Soon more cousins arrived, and Reginald stayed dutifully by her side, eventually putting a hand to her elbow to draw her forward. Once, when he seemed to be heading Peter’s way, Cosima stood still, and he looked at her questioningly. She merely shook her head, hoping he didn’t ask why she was reluctant to join Peter.

“I imagine you haven’t seen much of Peter these past few weeks,” Reginald said. “He’s spent more time at my house or Pall Mall than he has at home.”

Cosima did not need to confirm his words.

“What happened, when we all started out so friendly?”

Unsure how to respond, she said nothing.

“Whatever is rankling my friend must be settled,” Reginald declared, albeit softly. Evidently he wasn’t willing to share his concerns with the entire Escott family.

“He’s busy and trying to enjoy his evenings, I imagine,” said Cosima.

Reginald shook his head, his gaze on Peter, who stood across the room, now speaking to Cosima’s uncle, the duke. “No, it’s something else. I asked him to tell me why he’s spent so little time at home lately, but he shrugged off the question.” Reginald now looked at Cosima. “Do you have any idea? Did he have an argument with someone? his father? mother? Beryl, perhaps? Or you?”

“Me!” Her voice sounded breathless and guilty even to herself. She spared little more than a quick glance Reginald’s way. “Why would you ask? We may reside under one roof, but ’tis a very large roof, Reginald. I barely see him.”

“Precisely what I want to change,” Reginald said. “I once mentioned you and Peter are important to me. I want the three of us to be as comfortable together as any family, one made by a bond since there is no blood between us.”

“Yes, you’ve said that before, sir; only I find myself wondering at the sentiment. Marriage is for two parties alone.”

Reginald’s pale skin deepened in color, and his gaze flew away from her. “If you and I are to wed—” his tone belied anger rather than embarrassment—“Peter will no doubt be like a member of the family, as he’s like a brother to me now.”

“And I would not seek to change that. Beryl and I are as sisters, and yet I see little reason for you to become so close to her. Why do you think it important that Peter and I become friendly?”

“Why should anyone be friends? For a richer quality of life, of course. Not to mention that Peter has been instrumental in helping me gain acceptance within the circle of people to whom I wish to belong.”

“Peter has been a fine friend to you, and I shall never come between you.” She hoped that was enough said, for she dearly wished to move on to another topic. But when she looked up at Reginald’s face again, his eyes were colder than she’d ever seen them before.

“You will mend whatever rift has occurred between you, Cosima.” The words were so low they resembled a threat.

Then Cosima’s cousin Rachel greeted her with a kiss, and several other cousins followed suit. Cosima was glad to ignore Reginald as her Escott cousins chatted about mundane things, dresses and the weather and how quickly the summer was winding down. Surely she’d imagined the menace of Reginald’s voice. It made no sense for him to threaten
her.
He wanted to marry her.

Rachel told Cosima about the next season ahead. Soon the parliamentary sessions would be over for the year, and the peers and their families would return to their sprawling country estates for other pastimes: weeklong house visits and lavish balls, riding through the countryside, enjoying the gardens, playing outdoor games like tennis or croquet, and, of course, hunting. The way Rachel laid it out, the year seemed as structured as any occupation, except to Cosima it seemed that the aristocracy worked as hard at leisure as others did at more productive pursuits.

She began to enjoy herself despite the dowager’s scrutiny. The reticule containing her family relic hung from her wrist, and she knew the cross was tangible proof of the Lord above who accepted her even if others did not. The thought eased her nerves as she began to understand perhaps some of the reasons her father might have left England altogether.

Soon they were called to the dining room, where the long, damask-covered table sparkled with silver and intricately cut glassware. A footman carved a roast at the sideboard, delivered as each guest desired. Other maids and footmen brought lobster and roast fowl, mullet cooked in wine, vegetables, venison, lamb with asparagus, plovers’ eggs in aspic, sweetbread, fruit, and meringues, with wine in between.

Reginald seemed preoccupied and sullen, despite the fact that he sat at one of the most exclusive tables in London. Cosima had little idea how to ease his mood. What more did he want of her? Wasn’t it enough she did her best to be accepted, thereby laying the path for
his
acceptance?

At last the meal ended and the men were excused. Dowager Merit offered no separate respite for the younger cousins as she did last time. Rather, once she finished her tea and the gentlemen returned from the library, the entire party went to the conservatory, where more beverages and a light dessert were laid out.

The room boasted a high glass ceiling that revealed a lovely evening of moon and stars. The glass walls were supported by a rough stone foundation, in front of which stood plants of every shape and size. Tall palms and flowering hibiscuses dominated one corner. Enameled pots and mosaic urns housed all kinds of flowers, from narcissi to orchids and exotic Roman topiaries. Cosima was sure the room dazzled the eye in daylight, yet at night, with only candlelight revealing its cultivated wonders, the room seemed a jungle, making her feel as if they’d traveled farther than just down the hall.

Reginald seemed intent upon talking to Peter, so Cosima, keeping true to her intention to avoid him, pulled her arm from Reginald’s and whispered that she wanted to talk to some of her cousins.

And so she did. Children had appeared again, along with their nursemaids. Ignoring the fact that older cousins seemed to think the young ones invisible, Cosima went to the midst of the toddling youngsters and tickled a chin for a smile. She received and handed out hugs as easily as the older ones exchanged stories of recent sporting events or sailing trips.

One child, barely walking, took hold of Cosima’s reticule and tossed it to the floor. The sole object it held, the old relic, slipped to the Italian-tiled floor with a ping. Cosima picked it up, and when the infant reached for the cross, she held it in front of him, letting him touch the smooth center.

One of her young cousins, a boy called James who couldn’t be much older than ten, approached. “Cousin Cosima,” he said, obviously unshaken by the looks he received at his close proximity to the older cousins’ territory, “may I see what you are showing little Chessie? It looks . . . old.”

Cosima turned. “’Twas my great-grandfather’s—all that’s left of a boat that saved his life.”

“A boat that saved his life? How so?”

Cosima handed the relic to the boy, who, like everyone before him, was drawn to caress the center with his thumb.

“I’ll tell you a tale if you’d like to hear one.” Cosima was glad for the reprieve from having to join the others.

There was a settee nearby, and she took a seat with young James beside her.

“’Twas the year of our Lord 1748,” Cosima began, letting her voice take on the lilt of her mother’s and grandmother’s who each told the story so well with their Irish cadence. The conservatory of lilies and ferns seemed to disappear, and Cosima’s home took its place, along with a man she’d never met. Her great-grandfather. “This is the cross of Branduff Kennesey. You see it’s fashioned from wood that’s worn—beaten by years at sea. He told his daughter—my grandmother—this story. She told me, and now I shall tell you the tale of Grandfather Kennesey and the cross he held so dear.

“Young Branduff Kennesey was alone on his fishing boat—his first venture out by himself—when a tempest rose. Aye, ’twas a wind so fierce nothing could fight it, straight from the ice breath of evil itself. Any other boat but his would have splintered under such a gale, but not his little
Selah.
She held fast like a warrior in battle. The storm had a life of its own, come to claim victory over his puny form and send him to the bottom of the sea.

“But
Selah
held fast, and Branduff clung to her with his spindly arms, at the mercy of where the gale would take him. Many hours he clung to the bow, though it seemed like days. He knew neither hunger nor pain nor weakness, dreamed only of life and seeing his dear ones again.”