The Oak Leaves (9 page)

10

Earlier tonight, this bed looked every bit as inviting as Berrie promised. Sheltered under a leafy canopy, it is larger than the one I left behind at home. Sheer material stretches across the top, dangling attractively at each of the four posters in swags that touch the floor in gentle folds.

But I could not have foreseen how very little sleep I would get in this bed, no matter how comfortable it is in comparison to either the one at home or the one from which Berrie rescued me in the yellow room. I simply cannot slumber after what just happened.

It all started innocently enough, as I doused the light and prepared to retire for the night. . . .

Cosima doused the light beside the chaise, then went to the window and untied the loops of the heavy silver-and-green drapes. The room fell into darkness without stars or moon to cast a shadow. Feeling her way along the wall, she found the far side of the bed and knelt. Tonight’s prayer would not be written, but that made no difference to the heart of the Lord; of that Cosima was certain.

From the familiar position on her knees, she automatically closed her eyes for prayer but opened them a moment later. The room was so dark it made no difference whether her lids were up or down.

“Father in heaven,” she said aloud, then decided to continue without disturbing the silence.

Once again she asked the Lord’s guidance but also His forgiveness for her suspicions of Reginald and caution with her lovely hostess, at least so far as discussing wedding plans. She asked for heavenly wisdom yet again, wondering how she might serve God best: at Reginald’s side or back home alone, to see the vision of a school become reality.

The door clicked.

Cosima’s thoughts fell from heaven back to earth. Still on her knees, her gaze flew to the threshold, but she saw nothing in the darkness. She hadn’t thought to lock the door; no one at home ever did such a thing. Indeed, she hadn’t even checked to see if this door offered any sort of latch.

Fear crept up her spine, surpassing the initial surprise. Whoever—or whatever—was at the door seemed of strange intent. A sliver of light passed in from the hallway, but there the door stopped for a long, motionless moment.

And then it moved again. Cosima cowered in the darkness, hiding in the shadows behind the canopied bed. At last she saw a figure, darkly clad and large, holding what appeared to be a heavy and unwieldy bag.

“Too many this time,” the person said, evidently to no one in particular. Had the broad shoulders not already revealed this visitor a man, his deep voice would have given him away. The figure deposited his burden on the floor before the unlit firebox before pulling something from his pocket. A match. He struck it and lit the coals awaiting use, illuminating that portion of the room and sending the scent of sulfur as far as Cosima. Then he returned to the door and closed it. Evidently this door did offer a lock. Cosima heard it snap into place.

Heart pounding, she slunk beneath the bed altogether, too timid to watch. If the invader never suspected her presence, she would keep safe. But what sort of invader
brought
a full sack of goods?

She heard what sounded like rocks, bricks, or stones sliding against one another. Venturing from beneath the bed’s frame, she stole a quick peek over the edge of the quilt-covered mattress. With his back to her, she could see nothing more than one strong hand pulling out rock after rock, placing each one in a neat row before the light of the coal fire.

Cosima had seen Royboy do such a thing before—line up stones in a straight row. He had done it with sticks as well and once with his food, though that was only after he’d eaten far more than anyone thought his stomach could hold. Was this visitor like Royboy, then, trying to create order in some mysterious fashion, with items of no possible value for anyone else?

Unwilling to find out, she sank back under the bed. The bottom of the bed was high enough from the floor to afford her a low view as far away as where he knelt, and she saw the stripe he created lengthen with rocks of all shapes and sizes. Every once in a while he would tap two against one another, and dust would flicker in the meager light or a spark might catch hold of the flame only to instantly disappear.

Soon Cosima’s fear abated, and she wished only that he would leave. Instead he looked at the rocks as if they were some rare treasure, now and then grunting an indecipherable phrase as he studied them in the fire’s glow.

At last he stood; Cosima could tell when his knees disappeared from the floor and she saw only his shoes, a pair of sturdy black boots that were as dusty as the rocks he’d toted. She offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving, glad he seemed finished inspecting whatever sort of hoard he’d pulled out of that sack.

But he did not go to the door. When she heard more movement, she dared another peek. Her heart sank as she saw the man take off his coat, drape it on the back of the nearby chaise longue, then sit to remove his boots.

Surely he wasn’t planning to stay!

Suddenly his stockinged feet headed her way, and a moment later the bedsprings sighed and sank to accept his weight. Oh! What could she possibly do
now
?

She must leave. She would wait until he fell asleep, then let herself out and find another room in which to pass the night. Hopefully she could find her way to Beryl’s room or perhaps back to the yellow room. A lumpy bed didn’t seem as unappealing now as Beryl had made it sound earlier.

Soon Cosima heard the man’s even breathing. Keeping herself to a crawl, knees and palms to polished wood, she made her way along the dark side of the bed, occasionally tugging on her long cotton nightgown when it hampered her progress. Nearer the door, eerie shadows danced from the light of the coal fire, making the chaise longue in front of the firebox seem huge. Even the rocks placed before the fire seemed larger in the shadows, like a living landscape along a shoreline.

At last she reached the door and clutched at the knob. Twisting it in her fingertips, it moved as though unfettered—and yet the door did not budge. She looked for the lock, seeing nothing in the vicinity of the knob that would prevent the door from opening.

Then she saw it, placed high near the corner of the door. A slide lock. She eased herself to a stand, uncertain she could reach it even on tiptoe.

“What’s that?”

In a burst of panic, Cosima stretched but her reach fell just short of the lock. Bedsprings ground again, and too fearful to look behind her, Cosima jumped. She hit the mechanism with the tip of her longest finger, but it did not easily slide and she managed to move it only partway.

“Who’s that?”

She jumped again, hearing the man’s approach. This time she fell back, only to be caught in the arms of the invader. Immediately she squirmed free of his touch, even if he had prevented her from falling altogether.

“How did you get in here? And who are you?”

“I wish to leave—if you would open the door, please.” Her voice sounded tremulous and downright silly, which would have been how she felt if she weren’t so frightened. The magnitude of her vulnerability had the best of her, and she couldn’t bear to raise her gaze to him.

“Not until you’ve told me a thing or two, such as who you are and what you’re doing in this room.”

“I’m a guest,” she whispered, folding her arms across her chest as if to protect herself. Her heart thumped so badly she felt it clear through her forearms.

“And your name?”

“Cosima Escott.”

The man turned away, heading toward the firebox, where he retrieved a long match. He approached the lamp on the corner table.

Panic erupted in Cosima again when she realized light in the room would do nothing but illuminate her state of undress. The nightgown might cover her from head to toe, but it was thin and entirely inappropriate attire in which to make introductions. “Please don’t!” she requested, breathless from her fear but firm nonetheless.

He stopped, turning to her. With his back to the fire he seemed larger and darker, and his shoulders, even minus the overcoat, still broad. He was far taller than she was—well over six foot, she guessed—with long, strong legs that seemed about half of him. He looked like a farmer or a soldier or an American cowboy she’d seen drawings of once, but his features and clothes were so dark she could not make out if he was gentleman or rogue.

“You’re an Escott girl?”

“Cosima Escott,” she repeated, feet still frozen to the floor. She took some comfort that he’d listened to her plea and not lit the lamp.

“Cosima,” he said, as if by saying the name it might suddenly sound familiar. Evidently it did not. He shook his head. “I know all the Escotts here in London. Where are you from?”

“County Wicklow.”

“Ireland?”

He sounded so surprised, yet it suddenly struck her that this conversation had gone on long enough. She glanced around, spotting the bed stool that would serve well enough to reach the lock without this man’s assistance.

“Let’s see,” he said, evidently perfectly content to continue conversing as long as he pleased, “I’ve not heard of any Escotts in Ireland. But you’re related to John and Meg Escott, here in London?”

Pulling the stool toward the door, Cosima said over her shoulder, “Yes, they’re my aunt and uncle.”

“Then why on earth are you staying here and not at their home? Are they having some sort of festivity, that they’re so full up they couldn’t make accommodations for their own niece?”

Stepping up and reaching for the lock, she answered without looking at him. “I’ve never met them, actually, though I believe I will shortly.”

The lock slid apart, and she was awash with relief.

As if belatedly observing her actions, the interloper was at her side and took her hand to aid her back to the floor. “Pardon me,” he said. “I should have done that. I must have a few cobwebs in my brain, what with the surprise of finding you in here.”

“Yes, well, not more surprised than I when you first entered.” She pulled her fingers free, since he still held her hand although she was safely on the floor. She put her hand to the doorknob then, drawing it toward her.

“Where were you when I came in? I saw no one, and the bed is undisturbed. I thought the room empty.”

“I was beside the bed.”

“On the floor?”

Cosima folded her arms before her again, feeling a chill enter through the door she’d just opened, though she stood behind in its shadow. “If you must know, I was on my knees at the far side of the bed and would have been abed shortly.”

“On your knees?” he said. With the light from the hall shining only on him, Cosima could see his face now. Stark black brows hovered over dark eyes, separated by the bridge of a nose well set on his face, barely widening just above a mustached mouth. His was a handsome face, beneath ruffled hair every bit as dark as his eyes.

Just now he looked at her intently, as if trying to see something not readily discernable even in the improved lighting. “Were you looking for something on the floor?”

“Because I was on my knees?” she asked, slightly offended that such a thought was the first to come to his mind. She shook her head. “No, sir, I was praying. Kneeling is the best way to keep my mind on God and not fall off to slumber.”

Whatever light had seeped into the room suddenly seemed to come from his eyes. His brows rose, and his mustache widened with his lips into a broad smile. “That’s
my
favorite way of going to bed.”

She stiffened, and the arms clasped before her tightened. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I noticed no such action before you got into
that
bed.”

He laughed. “Oh, that’s not my bed. I was only going to stay a few moments because I was so tired I wasn’t sure I’d make it to my own. There it was, looking so inviting. But when I’m in my own room, nearly every night my knees touch the floor before my head touches the pillow.” He folded his arms now too and leaned casually against the doorjamb with a smile as easy as his laugh had sounded a moment ago. “Come now, Cosima, you don’t think I’d lie about something like that, do you?”

She wasn’t sure what she believed so late at night and in such extraordinary circumstances. “I don’t know you a’tall, sir, therefore I cannot decide.”

“Well, let’s see,” he said, stroking his chin with his hand. Such a large hand, she noticed, with fingers that could easily envelop her own. “I can think of a way to convince you. What goes along better with prayer than study of the Bible? Name a book and I shall try a quote. I’d say I could quote any given specific passage you might bring up, except I’m not that bright. But I think I might have at least one verse from any named book of Scriptures.”

She lifted one skeptical brow. Surely anyone who could recite from each book of the Bible must not be too dull. She took the challenge. “Zephaniah.”

He laughed again, and she found herself wanting to smile, but held back until hearing if he would pass or not.

“‘For then will I turn to the people a pure language, that they may all call upon the name of the Lord. . . .’ I think it goes on a little after that, but I forget soon after those words about a pure language. What a verse! I heard a sermon once that explained this foretells the gospel.”

Cosima felt her single, skeptical brow rise higher, ready to protest his obvious shift from completing the quotation to what seemed a diversionary tactic.

He held up a hand as if in surrender. “I said I could name a quote, but I didn’t say I could name an entire quote. From Zephaniah? Can
you
finish the verse?”

She smiled at last, shaking her head. “No, of course not. The test was for you, not for me. Of your own choice, I might add.”