The Oak Leaves (6 page)

6

Against my own better judgment, I will set out with Sir Reginald for England tomorrow. I must trust my parents’ choice and God’s plans for me. I pray that the way will become clear; at present, I must confess it is all rather muddled.

Sir Reginald has assured us that my four trunks can be strapped to the top and back of the Hale carriage all the way to London. The carriage itself is to be taken on the ship with us, across the Irish Sea. The largest of my cases contains my best gowns; another is packed with reticules, hats, slippers, shoes, and other accessories. (I can scarcely believe I will need all this finery, yet Mama insists that I must be prepared for any social gathering!) Yet another trunk holds my finest undergarments, nightclothes, shawls, capes, and informal gowns. Mama also insists that Millicent accompany me, and thus the fourth trunk carries her belongings. While I cannot imagine that I will need a lady’s maid, as Millicent is to be called, it will be nice to have a familiar face nearby.

I will also take my small tapestry bag for those items that I cannot let from my sight. One, of course, is this journal. I have also placed in my bag the relic Grandma Josephine bequeathed to me: the iron-edged cross. I cannot leave that behind.

Only one item in my bag has more than sentimental value, and I would far rather leave it here, safe at home. But Mama was emphatic about my taking her emerald necklace—a single emerald set in gold, hanging from a braided chain. It is worth far more than any other bauble I own or ever expect to own. I can only assume that Mama wants her daughter to show that someone of Irish lineage—lo, even a descendant of Catholics—is not so backward and poor as those in England must imagine.

I have agreed to take the emerald—but I have not promised to wear it. . . .

The interior of the Hale carriage was upholstered in warm gold velvet, with matching curtains pulled aside from each window. Lap blankets and a carved wooden stool were stored beneath one seat, along with a pillow to cushion the ride more than the deeply padded seats and backrests already provided.

Cosima watched the trees on Escott land disappear, making way for rolling green hills. Escott land, so titled now, although before her mother had married Charles Escott, it had been Kennesey land. Grandma Josephine Kennesey had many children, but only three survived childhood. Several died in infancy, another at age seven when a simple cut on her foot became infected and led to a fatal fever. Josephine’s oldest boy, a brilliant and promising heir, was killed in a riding accident at age fifteen. That left only the three: Cosima’s mother, Mary; her younger sister, Rowena; and her brother Willie.

By English law, Irish inheritances were to be evenly split among the offspring—an old law meant to divide and conquer. But the Kennesey family, like many, resisted in any way they could. It was easy to prove Willie unfit to inherit, and once Rowena wed she signed a certificate to hand over her claim to Mary so the land would not be partitioned. A small protest, but one that made the family happy.

And so Mary had become the sole heir. Then through Mama’s marriage to a Protestant Englishman, the land left the hands of Irish Catholics and passed to the English in a bloodless conquest. If there was a curse, many Irish thought it appropriate that Mama had passed it along to the English through her marriage.

The Hale carriage passed the countryside in silence for some time, and Cosima found her gaze on the man seated across from her. In the four days of Reginald’s visit to Escott Manor, he’d proven to be witty and well mannered, which pleased Cosima’s mother. He also engaged Cosima’s father and, not as obviously, Cosima herself with his keen knowledge regarding the plight afflicting Irish farming, politics, and society.

Despite the fact that he’d made clear his intention to marry Cosima, he’d spent remarkably little energy getting to know her beyond polite conversation. She had wondered if he was saving more intimate investigation of her for when they could be relatively alone—as now. Only Millie accompanied them, but a lady’s maid was expected to be both blind and deaf regarding personal matters of her mistress. Certainly now was the opportunity for Cosima and Reginald to get to know one another, before vows were exchanged.

While Reginald did not seem the shy sort, Cosima wondered if he needed help or encouragement in private conversation. She was not at all reconciled to the idea of marrying Reginald, but if he continued to be as persuasive as he had been with her parents, what reason could she give, even to herself,
not
to marry him?

“You mentioned to my parents that you lost your own parents some time ago, Sir Reginald. Will there be any . . . other family . . . expecting to meet me?”

Still studying the landscape, he spoke. “I have no family.” His tone was dull, flat. At last he looked at her, and his gaze seemed the same. Though especially blue in the sunlight pouring through the window, his eyes spoke one message: disinterest.

Cosima’s initial desire for conversation waned. She slid a glance toward Millie, who, true to her position, kept her eyes forward.

“You are not coming to England to gain some sort of approval, Cosima,” Reginald said quietly, surprising her with his tender tone. “You need only please me, and that you have done.”

She looked at him again. He seemed to have returned to the man he’d been around her parents: friendly and approachable. She smiled. “I’m glad that I do, Sir Reginald. Only we hardly know one another. I fear whatever pleasure you have in me can only be of the shallowest kind. I do hope this visit to your home will be a means for us to know one another better.”

“Of course,” he said, congenially enough. “What is it you wish to learn?”

She had no answer for the unexpected question. Her idea for getting to know a prospective spouse must be far different from Reginald’s. He seemed to believe they could exchange a list of questions and—voilà!—know each other well enough to decide whether or not they were compatible.

But, Cosima told herself, considering marriage proposals wasn’t something in which she was well versed, even in her imagination. Perhaps his view was more realistic than the silly dreams she had tried to squelch, of intimate conversation pouring out of two people like water from a fountain with two spigots, mingling as one in a great pool of shared ideas and similarities.

And so she decided she would try Reginald’s way. By intention rather than inspiration. “The other day, when I mentioned my plans for Escott Manor, you didn’t seem at all put upon. Have you no designs of your own on the land and holdings that will one day be mine?”

“My dear Cosima,” he said lightly, “do you think for a moment that I would choose to live on this side of the Irish Sea?”

Stiffening at his clear disdain for the land of her birth, she did not reply.

A moment later Reginald must have guessed her indignation. He leaned forward and gently took both of her hands in his. “Cosima, Cosima,” he said softly, “I am not money hungry, nor a landmonger. I’ve no designs on any of your property. It’s yours to do with as you like. A school, you say? That’s a noble plan, one I would encourage you to pursue.”

Cosima forced a smile to her lips. Such words should comfort her. The land would remain hers to do with as she wished. Wasn’t that more than she could have hoped for? Here she was, being pursued by an English gentleman—one who would allow her free use of her inheritance. What could be better?

Reginald let go of her hands and leaned back in his seat, once again gazing out of the window. He did nothing to further the conversation, though he hadn’t really stymied it a moment ago.

There were a great deal more questions on Cosima’s mind, but she hesitated to bring them up. Her foremost concern was Royboy’s future. Once her parents were gone, he would need someone to look after him, and Cosima had always envisioned herself in that role.

Even her plans for a school to provide care and lessons for him and others like him had included her presence to ensure Royboy’s safety and comfort. Could she leave him there if she couldn’t hope to live there as well? That was one question she could not rid from her mind.

Far preferable would be to have him in whatever place she called home, whether in Ireland or England, if Reginald would allow it. But why should she fear Reginald’s answer? Hadn’t he shown himself to be tolerant of Royboy? Even when Royboy had joined them on several occasions, endlessly mimicking with his own sometimes incoherent version of speech or sitting at Reginald’s feet and fussing with his shoe ties or even the luncheon fiasco, never once had Reginald complained of Royboy’s presence. Perhaps he would welcome Royboy—or tolerate him, at least.

“What are your plans for your future then, Sir Reginald?” she asked at some length, like a coward putting off the real topic on her mind. “You indicated to my father an interest in politics. Is that your desire?”

He laughed. “Ho, I’d not get far with my lowly title, I’m afraid, except in the House of Commons. And I’ve no wish to associate myself with commoners.”

“What of the work for which you were knighted?” she asked, recalling the story he told her parents of benevolent efforts in London and Liverpool.

“Oh, that.” He looked out the window again. “That was mainly because of my friend Peter. He’s a current baron and will be a viscount once his father passes on. Have I mentioned Peter before?”

Cosima shook her head.

“It was his idea to set up workhouses in two of the worst neighborhoods in London and Liverpool. We went there with a few of our men, to find whomever we could pluck from the gutter able to do the simplest work, and made them foremen. We provided jobs that paid workers well enough to live decently. We also set up a clinic and soup kitchen in the manner of what you had here in Ireland for a while—well, still do, I imagine, only not with the English government’s help anymore. The Quakers still offer the soup kitchens, so Peter tells me. He keeps apprised of benevolent work, so he may fill a few of the niches.”

“But you were knighted,” she said. “You must have played an important role.”

“Well, that was Peter’s doing, on my behalf. I barely lifted a finger, only donated some money and went along for the adventure since I’d never been to a slum before. I wanted to see what poverty looked like from the center of it, not the fringe. Out of curiosity is all.”

Cosima eyed him, baffled. Had he meant to sound so callous, or was he merely being modest by belittling his own altruism? “And Peter is your close friend?”

“Oh yes, a marvelous chap. He’s always trying to get me to take the high road—you know the sort. I’m quite fond of him when I don’t hate him out of pure envy for all he is and does.” He laughed lightheartedly. “He’d have become a missionary, I suppose, if his father didn’t have that title all ready to be handed down. Peter’s younger brother is already a champion of the faith in some godforsaken place in Africa. Sadly, Peter has only the one brother. Two sisters, but we all know they don’t count for much when it comes to titles. So the future of the great Hamilton legacy remains squarely upon Peter’s shoulders.”

“He has no children of his own yet, then, to secure another generation for his legacy?”

“Children? No, not for Peter. He was engaged once and it ended badly, so he’s been hesitant to consider marriage lately.” Reginald gave her a broad smile. “I was hoping that by setting a good example with you, Peter might not be so reluctant to start his own future.”

“How kind of you. Is that why you’ve decided to search for a wife? To encourage your friend?”

He laughed again. “Well, perhaps! You must know, Cosima, that I had designs on you before I even met you. I sent Mr. Linton to bring back his report, knowing he is a very good judge of . . . character.” His laugh rang out again, as if he’d caught himself in some joke only he understood. “He returned saying you were lovely both inside and out, your reputation among the townspeople was unsullied by selfishness or stinginess, and you would, in his humble opinion, make a suitable wife for anyone in such a position as my own.”

“But are there no women in England who suit you?”

“Oh yes, plenty—but none of my choosing would have me. You see, Cosima, I am a snob. I readily admit such a fault. I am but a knight—wealthy, to be sure, but for all practical purposes a commoner. Commoners do not suit me—at least English ones—and ladies of the aristocracy will not have me. You, by virtue of your father’s heritage, are the closest thing to nobility I could possibly hope to acquire.”

That he had looked at marriage through the eyes of social betterment should not come as any surprise, since Cosima already knew romance played no part in his interest. But to have it said so plainly, and with no obvious compunction, made her undeniably uncomfortable. More importantly though, with her family history, how could anyone think of her as being socially desirable?

Yet he had brought up a whole subject that interested her far more than she’d let herself believe to that moment. “I know very little of my father’s family apart from the portraits hanging in our hall. My mother said Father hired someone to make full-size portraits from small copies he had taken with him when he left England. It always struck me as obvious that it was my father’s family who disowned him and not the other way around. What is his family like?”

Reginald looked at her as if he could not believe her words. “You have no idea why your father left England?”

“No, I don’t.”