The Oak Leaves (4 page)

4

It was a bit unsettling to sit in the sunroom this morning with Mama and Father. Before today, we had not used the room in nearly a year! I had forgotten what a lovely prospect it has, overlooking the back of our property. At the base of the hill, one can see the forest, and beyond that, acres and acres of rich farmland. Rich, that is, before the blight.

I began to think of our tenants, most of whom still live in their snug cottages through Father’s generosity. What will become of them when the Escott funds are depleted? Money must come from somewhere. Yet my thoughts were not permitted to linger long on such topics. . . .

“I see no reason why you shouldn’t welcome this visit, Cosima,” said her father, Charles Escott.

“Of course she welcomes it.” Her mother sipped tea, and her easy tone might have convinced Cosima that she was calm, except her teacup hit the saucer a bit too roughly, spilling some.

Cosima said nothing to accept or deny the pronouncements. She looked around the room, at the furniture now revealed that had been covered for so many months, still colorful and inviting. The craftsmanship was fine, having been purchased with no thought to expense. Plush settees and polished, intricately carved side tables offered visitors what they wished: a place to sit in comfort and a table upon which to rest their tea.

The entire main floor had been reopened, a bit early since the last of winter’s chill might still be forthcoming. But with their visitor due to arrive at any time, it had been an easy decision for her mother to make.

“Cosima,” her father said with cajoling lightness, “have you decided not to speak until this decision is made, one way or another?”

Cosima tasted her own now-tepid tea, recoiling. She didn’t like the flavor of her mother’s favorite but had arrived at the table too late to state her preference.

“Of course not,” she said at last. “I will speak, though my words make little difference, do they? The decision has been made . . . by Sir Reginald Hale.”

Her father leaned forward and patted her hand. “Now there, child, it isn’t as if we’re selling you off to this man, you know. He could be a perfectly acceptable chap, one you’ll grow to love. In time.”

“Don’t you know, darlin’, if you go into marriage with the wee expectation you obviously have, it can only get better. Respect won over the years leads inevitably to love.” Her mother took a bite from a biscuit and added, as if an afterthought, “Some love matches are prone to disappointment, because expectations are unreasonable. And that’s the truth of it, so I’ve been told.”

Cosima studied her mother as if she’d spoken another language. Cosima wasn’t looking for love or avoiding it either. She was desperately trying to establish disinterest in the entire subject of marriage for one very good reason: she simply could not marry. Ever.

How could her mother not understand? She acted as though Cosima were drowning in the folly of her own plan, insisting on throwing her a life preserver in the form of one Reginald Hale.

Her father spoke again. “We’ve reviewed the man’s introduction, Cosima. He comes from a respected English merchant family. Not aristocracy, but he’s earned knighthood for benevolence work. It’s your mother’s wish, and my own, that you consider this proposal as perhaps the best that’s likely to come. What with . . . well, the perceptions of people around here—”

“They call it a curse, Father.” Cosima hadn’t meant to sound so cold. She looked out the window, seeing Royboy laughing and stumbling after one of the dogs.

A curse. Her brother, whom she loved but sometimes resented, was the outward evidence of that curse. If she had children, it was virtually guaranteed, so said everyone who knew them, that she, too, would present a son with the mind of a permanent child. She’d seen what that had done to her father—the dashed hope, the weight of having no son fit to carry on the name or legacy. And she’d seen the way her mother had borne the guilt.

Why would either one of them expect she’d want to repeat such a cycle? And thrust it upon someone else? She had no feeling whatever for Sir Reginald Hale, yet even a stranger deserved to know what he was in for should he carry out his plan to marry her.

Besides, she had nearly convinced herself that God hadn’t designed her for marriage. Soon, if she could trust Him a little better, she knew the last of her desire to someday wed would dwindle away as well.

“The carriage approaches, madam,” said Melvin from the threshold. Gone, for the time being at least, was any trace that he’d spent much of the winter mucking out the stable. He was once again the manservant, dressed in stiff black attire, complete with spotless white gloves and shiny black shoes. Indeed, most of the servants they’d dismissed for the winter had been called back, and Cosima guessed they were delighted to be earning a wage again—however slim it would be considering the circumstances in their land. Even so, they had a roof over their head, a warm hearth at night, and more to eat at Escott Manor than they likely had at whatever alms- or workhouse they had been forced to live in the past year.

Mama was the first to her feet, and the table jiggled when her full skirt brushed the edge. One hand went to the back of her hair, which was neatly swept up into a loose bun, while with her other hand she smoothed away any wrinkles in the foulard of her gown. Their finest gowns had indeed acquired the faint smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and orrisroot, but not a stitch had been touched by any hungry moths. A few days of airing had left the scent barely noticeable, fading altogether next to the pleasant aroma of rosewater bath both women favored.

Her parents neared the threshold before Cosima rose to her feet, and she did so only because her father glanced back and stalled, offering her his arm.

“We’ll wait in the morning room,” he said to Melvin.

That her father sounded like his usual unruffled self was some comfort to Cosima, but she noticed his color was slightly heightened, giving away the fact that he was every bit as eager for this proposal to prove fruitful as was her mother. Cosima followed, her hand lightly on her father’s arm, but her gaze lingered behind, seeing Royboy still outside with the dogs. Perhaps it would have been better to be born like him.

The parlor was called the morning room, but Cosima had always thought of it as the blue room, for so much of it was decorated in shades of blue, from the neatly upholstered furniture and brocade curtain swags to the vases and lamps that graced the side tables.

Melvin entered just after Cosima and her parents were settled. Behind Melvin followed two figures. One she recognized as the servant, Mr. Linton. Her gaze slipped away from him, anxious to see the man who must be Sir Reginald.

He was at first glance unremarkable. No taller than Cosima herself at five foot six—tall for a woman only half Irish, but somewhat small in a man. His most attractive feature was his thick, striking blond hair. Fair skin matched the lightness of his hair, and his eyes were a vivid blue. But those eyes were small, his nose a trifle large, and he had a nearly nonexistent chin, for his face seemed to narrow straight down from forehead to neck. His lips were flat and the upper almost invisible. And yet he was somewhat pleasant, because of his hair and eyes. Surely not handsome by any measure, neither was he ugly.

If he was kind, she thought . . .

Cosima closed her mind to such wanderings. Would she so easily entertain the notion of marriage? No . . . no matter what this man hoped to achieve.

She realized her parents had already been introduced and now Sir Reginald stood before her. She offered him her hand, which he kissed after a formal bow.

“You are lovely, Miss Escott. Lovelier than I imagined.”

Then her mother, in a voice that must seem obviously flustered even to a stranger’s ear, offered tea. She went on to answer Mr. Linton’s inquiries about Sir Reginald’s belongings, as it had been prearranged that the two would stay at the manor. Mr. Linton then excused himself, following Melvin from the room.

“We’ve read your introduction with interest, Sir Reginald,” said Father. “But nowhere could we find how you learned of our Cosima. Please, sit down and tell us.”

Sir Reginald’s fine, fair skin seemed to turn a bit pink. Cosima doubted the color was from the warmth of their surroundings, though they sat in front of the fireplace. It was lit in hopes of chasing away a morning chill, but this part of the stone manor trapped cool air like the bowels of an icehouse in the middle of July.

Cosima’s parents sat on the opposite settee, leaving Cosima the place beside their visitor.

Reginald addressed her father. “I am acquainted with your mother, Dowager Merit, Sir Charles. That’s why I hesitated to mention the connection in my document.”

Now it was her father’s turn to flush. Since he had not spoken to his mother at least in Cosima’s lifetime, his family was something she knew nothing about.

“I hold nothing against you for knowing my mother,” he said, recovering himself quickly with a steady voice. “’Tis a sad thing that my family and I are estranged.”

“They must acknowledge you in some way, Father.” Cosima’s reluctance to be part of the conversation was diminished by her interest in the topic. “Otherwise Sir Reginald would never have heard of us.”

Her gaze, along with her parents’, settled on Reginald again, this time with obvious curiosity.

Reginald looked between them, rubbed the palms of his hands on his lap, and then uttered a brief laugh that did not conceal his outward discomfort. He looked at Cosima. “You have a cousin who somehow knows all about you and your family here in Ireland, despite the fact that her own parents seem to have tried banishing all memory of this part of their family.”

“She told you why, then?” Cosima wasn’t sure her father would have pressed for information but knew she must.

“She supposed it was because of a general dislike for Ireland. Nothing but dissidents to be found in this land of farmers and Catholics. Oh, forgive me . . . ,” he added, raising a palm to his lips as if he wished he could grab back the words and stuff them down. “I’ve nothing against Catholics myself, or farmers, for that matter. All this trouble between England and Ireland is none of my affair, especially since I’ve very little religious leanings.”

“But you would be married in the church, surely,” said Mama.

“Oh yes,” Reginald said hastily. “I am Anglican, of course. Not a heathen at all, Mrs. Escott. Perhaps I should have said I have little
political
leanings, insofar as Catholics and Protestants are concerned. Sometimes it seems impossible to separate the two, does it not?”

“Is that all this cousin of mine said of our family? That my father was disowned for choosing to live in Ireland?”

“Well . . .” He looked around the room, as if their surroundings had something to do with the answer. “Forgive me. . . . This seems unpleasant to say the least, not at all the way I wished for you to get to know me or I to know you.”

“Of course,” said Mama, standing. Cosima didn’t miss the glare directed her way. Nor did she miss the relief on her father’s face that the subject was suddenly to be abandoned. “How remiss of us to have pressed you into a discussion better left unspoken. We shall go to the dining room for a light repast after your journey.”

They were all on their feet then. Sir Reginald offered Cosima his arm, and she placed her palm so lightly on his sleevethat she hoped he felt nothing at all. He might not be comfortable telling her all she wanted to know about her father’s family, but that would not stop
her
from telling him all he needed to know about her. One look into his pleasant blue eyes and she knew the sooner she spoke, the better.

Father led the way silently down the wide hall, and Cosima stared straight ahead, feeling Sir Reginald’s gaze on her profile. He didn’t even look around, not at the wall sconces Mama was so proud of or at the Irish landscapes her father had commissioned. It vaguely surprised her that Sir Reginald didn’t take more of an interest in the manor, if it was his hope to inherit through her. Just as well that he did not. Once he knew about her brothers, that would no doubt be the last she’d see of one Sir Reginald Hale.

Now, how to tell him without Mama’s interference?

They entered the dining room, and there in the middle of the room, with a smile as cherubic as a two-year-old’s, was the perfect answer to Cosima’s dilemma. Royboy sat—not in a chair, but on the center of the table—contentedly scraping bread pudding out of one of Mama’s favorite crystal bowls. He used no utensil, his face was covered with evidence of how he loved to fill his mouth, and his hands and shirt were lavishly smeared.

“Royboy!”

Even at his mother’s surprised and angry gasp, he smiled. Even as she strode forward, taking the bowl from him, grabbing his wrist to draw him off the table, he smiled. He laughed when she called for Decla, the maid who most often had charge of Royboy.

Mama led him quickly from the room, but he grinned wide at his sister as he passed by. “Pudding.”

Mama did not pause as she propelled him out. But Royboy must have noticed Reginald for the first time, and he turned, letting his mother pull him from behind so he had to walk backward.

“How do you do,” he said, just the way Cosima had coached him so many times. It was by rote; she knew he had no idea that the words were a greeting or that they meant anything at all. But at the moment Cosima was inordinately proud of him. He’d used the phrase appropriately for the first time in his life.

Once Royboy was beyond sight, led down the corridor toward the kitchen stairway, Cosima looked at Reginald. What better way could there have been for him to meet her brother? to see what kind of sons she would bear him?

Reginald stood stiffly at her side, his face a mask. Well, he was polite; she would give him that. Even her father’s face showed a bit of horror, and he was used to Royboy’s wrongdoings. Father looked too embarrassed to speak.