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The Oak Leaves

By Maureen Lang

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Chapter One
The dull hum of the garage door sounded. Luke was home. Talie looked up from the books and papers spread across her kitchen table. She might have been tempted to stay up all night reading, but not now. Welcoming her husband home was the only thing she liked about his occasional business trips.
As the door from the garage opened, Talie stood to greet her husband. “Welcome home!”
He moved to put his briefcase in its usual spot, but finding the table covered with the memorabilia Talie had been studying, he settled it on a nearby chair.
“Hey,” he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her.
Amazing how even after four years of marriage her heart still twirled at such a thing, especially when he gazed at her afterward. She read nothing but pure love in his lively blue eyes.
“Good to be home.” He scanned the adjacent family room.
Talie guessed he was looking for the baby. “I tried to keep Ben awake, but he crashed about twenty minutes ago.” She grinned. “You can probably get reacquainted around two in the morning, though.”
“Has he been up a lot while I was gone?”
She nodded.
Luke shrugged broad shoulders out of his suit coat. “I’ll look in on him when we go up.”
“How did everything go on your trip?”
“Better than I expected. They offered me the job.”
“They did!” Talie hugged him, then pulled away. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called earlier?”
“I wanted to see your face.” He kissed her, studying her again afterward. “And it was worth the wait.”
Pride for him mushroomed from deep inside, spreading up and out through her smile. Once, before she’d met Luke, before other dreams had taken its place, she’d had a career vision of her own. Going up through the ranks of the education trail, from teacher to department head to curriculum director, from assistant principal to principal and on to superintendent. Now, seeing Luke’s dreams going forward, she tasted vicarious living but, amazingly enough, didn’t miss those old aspirations for herself. She was living a new kind of dream, one she wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Congratulations, Mr. Architectural Engineering Director. When do you start?”
“Right away. I move into my new office tomorrow. They want me to restructure the department, so I’ll probably have to hire a couple of new people.”
“We’ll have to celebrate. Get a babysitter, out to dinner—the works.”
Luke loosened his tie and went to the refrigerator. As incredible as he looked in a suit, she knew he far preferred jeans and a T-shirt. He grabbed a Coke. “What went on around here while I was gone?”
“Jennifer down the street is starting a playgroup for the kids in the neighborhood. I’m taking Ben tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. How many kids?”
“Five—all of them born last year like Ben.”
He took a gulp of soda. “Did you have a good time at your mom’s? Get a lot done?”
Talie turned back to the table. “The garbageman is going to hate her on Tuesday, but the house looks great. I think she’ll be ready to list it any day now. Look here. . . .” She held up the family Bible she’d been looking at before he arrived. “This is the treasure we found among all the trash.”
“What is it?”
“A Bible that belonged to my dad’s grandmother. I have a whole box of things that must have been hers. The letters are wonderful. Letter writing is a lost art now that everyone has e-mail. And look at this. I think it’s a journal.”
She picked up the smooth, leather-bound book. It was tied closed with a ribbon. “I’m almost afraid to touch it—the binding is cracked. It’s all so incredible.” Talie sighed, looking at all of the things strewn on the table. “This is like a call back, Luke.”
He looked from the journal to her. “Call back?”
She nodded, her heart twisting from missing her dad. “When I was a kid our family would take driving vacations. On that first day we’d get up at three in the morning to miss rush hour traffic around Chicagoland. We’d all fall back asleep, but that’s what Dad liked—to drive in the quiet. Sometimes, though, I’d sit up front with him. He used to say I was helping by keeping him company. I knew he didn’t really need help. He just wanted me to feel useful.”
Unexpected tears welled in her eyes. “He liked it when he could see taillights ahead. Not too close, just up the road.” Instead of the kitchen table in disarray she saw a pair of round, red lights gleaming from an invisible dark road ahead. “He used to tell me that was his call back. The car ahead called back that the road was still there, free and clear for him to follow.”
She blinked, seeing again the items in front of her. “These are like a call back. Seeing what’s gone before can help us know what to expect from life. It’s especially meaningful when it’s your own family history.”
Talie returned her attention to the Bible, opening it to the names and dates that went back to the eighteenth century.
“Is your name written in that Bible?” Luke asked.
She scanned the list toward the more recent additions at the end but then shook her head. “No, but my mom’s is next to my dad’s, with their anniversary date. So many names! For our next baby we can pick a name from the family. Like . . . Josephine or Sarah or Emily. Or here’s one I really like: Cosima. We could call her Sima.”
“What, no men in your dad’s history? Aren’t there any boys’ names?”
“We already have a boy, silly. We need to hope for a girl next time.”
“Fifty-fifty chance of it going either way, honey. Let me see.” He took the Bible from her. “Matthew would be good. Or . . . wait. Branduff? Seamus? Sounds like a bunch of Irishmen. I thought your family was German and English.”
“The German is from my mother’s side. I guess I’ll find out more about my dad’s family from these names. But something awful must have happened in 1848. Five deaths are listed on the same day.”
“Hmm . . . 1848. Ireland had a potato famine around that time, I think.”
“That’s probably it,” Talie said with a nod. “Isn’t it amazing that they couldn’t feed themselves yet they kept birth records all the way back to the century before?”
Luke smiled. “I’m sure you have quite some family history there.”
“And look at this. Dad really did have an Aunt Ellen. Ellen Dana Grayson, his mother’s sister. But I’d rather not show this to Dana.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s named for the mysterious Aunt Ellen. Her full name is Ellen Dana, only my mom liked Dana better so we always called her that.”
“So why is this aunt mysterious, and what difference does it make if Dana knows about her?”
“Look here.” Talie pointed to an entry. “Ellen Dana Grayson, born 1910, died 1941. She never married, and she died in a place called Engleside. Sounds like a rest home, but she would’ve been too young for that. She must have been sick. I don’t want Dana knowing she was named for some sick, lonely relative who never got married. You know how Dana is. She already thinks she’s an old maid and she’s not even thirty yet. She’ll think history is bound to repeat itself just because of a name.”
Luke shook his head. Talie had seen that look on his face before, the one that said she was being overprotective again. She was willing to concede she wanted the best for her younger sister, but that’s how big sisters were supposed to be. She wasn’t about to shirk her duty, even on a small point like this.
Luke was still studying the names listed in the back of the Bible.
“If I draw a rough draft and put all the names and birth dates in order, could you make a family tree?” she asked. “We could hang it in the study.”
“Sure. Just birth dates, though? You’re going to avoid anything morbid like when they died, even though that’s the most interesting part?”
Talie hesitated.
“It’s that date, isn’t it?” He was watching her closely. “May 16, 1848.”
“I know it’s probably nothing more dramatic than the potato famine, but I guess I’d like to find out what happened before we advertise on our walls that five members of my family died on the same day.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Talie. I love a good mystery. But I don’t think something that happened more than a hundred and fifty years ago can make much of a difference in our lives. Now let’s go upstairs and peek in on that baby up there. And then—” he set aside the Bible and pulled her into his arms again, nuzzling her neck—“you can welcome me home as if I’ve been gone a lot longer than a few days.”

Talie left their bed, knowing from past experience her movement wouldn’t disturb Luke. His steady breathing said it was true again tonight.
She went downstairs to the kitchen table, where she’d left the dilapidated journal. It was old and stiff, the satin ribbon faded.
Touching one of the shamrocks engraved on the front, she untied the ribbon and opened the soft leather cover. The pages proved to be remarkably free of damage despite their apparent age. No water spots, no mold, just clear handwriting on thick paper that had barely yellowed through the years. Maybe it was a good thing her father had been so disinterested in the past; storing the items in the dry darkness of their attic hadn’t done the collection any harm.
Talie instantly guessed it to be a personal diary. A stranger’s, yes, but someone whose blood had flowed in her father and now flowed in her. She read the first page.
To my son Kipp and his wife, and to their children and children’s children in America,
I can think of no better way for you to know me than to share with you my journal from the time in my life that revealed God’s plans for me—plans far different from my own. This is my legacy to you.
I assure you each word is true. If you inherit anything from me, may it be the knowledge that love is stronger than fear, especially with faith in the One who is love:” Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”
—Cosima Escott Hamilton, 1874
Talie pulled out the Bible and turned to the records pages. Cosima Escott, born in Ireland in the year of our Lord 1830, to Mary and Charles Escott. Married 1850 to Peter Hamilton.
Born in Ireland? Talie’s father had told her their heritage was English, not Irish. And the names Escott and Hamilton certainly didn’t sound Irish. Pressing her finger along the records page, Talie found the year of Cosima’s death: 1901. Though she’d died more than a hundred years ago, she’d lived to a ripe old age. Good for her; her years had outnumbered Dad’s by almost a half dozen. Not bad for those times.
Strange that Cosima had chosen to write “love is stronger than death” as her legacy.
Talie slid her finger down the death column again. There it was: May 16, 1848. . . .
Maybe Cosima’s pages held the answer.

Ireland, 1849
Today we had an unexpected visitor, who came bearing even more unexpected news. I fear my life is about to change forever.
The day began like any other. I helped Mama straighten the bedchambers after breakfast then attended to other duties that countless servants used to do. Polishing brass kept us busy most of the morning: locks and knobs, candleholders and lamps, bedposts and curtain rods. Brass is everywhere when the time comes to clean it! To be honest, I am glad we have closed off the older wing, although it is a bit odd to have rooms of one’s home dark, cold, and filled with shrouded furniture. But as we can afford the help of only four servants, confining ourselves to the new wing proves most agreeable.
Once my chores for the day were completed, I was able to rest beneath the old oak tree for a time. At first, Royboy was with me. How lovely to have him calm and quiet for a few moments. . . .
Cosima Escott idly fiddled with the amulet she wore round her neck as she watched her brother Roy playing beneath the shade of a primordial oak. They called him Royboy because he was still such a little boy of mind and showed scant hope of that changing. He lay on the ground, alternately rubbing his nose in the early spring grass and pulling bark from the tree while chattering away. Twice now she’d had to remove wood chunks from his mouth, and she anticipated having to do so again before long. All the while he jabbered, repeating words he’d heard Cosima say or recounting what he had done that morning.
On most days Cosima was barely aware of her brother’s limitations. He was simply Royboy, the same as he’d always been. But today, with pages ripped and askew from her stack of favorite poems, Cosima had been reminded of her brother’s penchant for mischief.
She pulled at the long gold chain hanging from her neck. Mama said the amulet Cosima wore as a necklace was too old, too large, and too plain, despite the fact that it was a Kennesey heirloom from Mama’s side of the family. But Cosima rarely went anywhere without it. She squeezed the metal-edged cross dangling from the chain into her palm. No matter how hard she pressed, it left no mark upon her youthful skin. How sweet it would be to have a constant reminder, the image of the cross as close and ever present as her own hand. Then, if the family relic that meant so much to her was lost or forbidden to wear outside of home, she would have nothing more to do than glance down at her palm to remember. Remember not only the strength behind what the cross symbolized for any Christian but also that the blood flowing in her veins was that of a Kennesey. And she could survive—all and whatever.
Sometimes it was good to remember her heritage of strength. She eyed her brother again. Physically, Royboy had long ago outgrown his childlike state. At thirteen he was tall and gangly, still blond even though Cosima herself had lost her own golden flecks. It was as if Royboy’s hair knew he was still a child. The curls could belong to someone the age of Royboy’s mind instead of a youth only six years younger than Cosima.
And yet as Royboy tried to catch the dandelion seeds she blew into the air, it was impossible not to return his ever-present smile.
“Apple, Cosima,” Roboy said.
Cosima nodded. It was time to eat.
Standing, she held Royboy’s hand in her free one because she knew he would wander, hunger potentially forgotten at any moment. They walked toward the manor house, passing the gardener on their way, whose arms were laden with garden tools and a burlap bag of weeds to be carried off and burned.
“Royboy, say, ‘How do you do,’” Cosima instructed as she so often did when they encountered someone.
Royboy issued a high-pitched exclamation, flapping his free hand in the air. Sometimes he belatedly repeated the phrase she hoped to teach him, but never once had he done so with anyone but herself nearby.
Cosima led the way toward the new wing, where the rooms stayed warmer with a minimum of fuel. For what should they reopen such a grand and sprawling estate? No one ever came to visit, and it wasn’t because afflicted potato fields brought hard times. No. Others feared their curse was contagious.
Just as that thought crossed Cosima’s mind, a carriage caught her attention. The road leading to the manor was narrow and remote, winding like a stream parting the trees. Anyone traveling the several-mile lane could easily be spotted from the front door.
Cosima rushed to the back of the manor house, where a stairwell led down to the kitchen.
Royboy followed with his slower, clumsy gait. “I want apples, Cosima. Get apples.”
“We must find Mama first, Royboy,” she said.
“No. Not Mama. Apples.”
“But there are visitors coming, Royboy, and we must tell her.”

…Cosima hurried upstairs to see about the progress her mother was making with her attire. There wasn’t time for either to change, but the old gown her mother was wearing showed the quality of fine linen edged with lace—even if the tattered lace did show too many holes upon closer inspection. Her skin now gleamed as if she’d had a good night’s rest instead of having only splashed a bit of rose water upon her face and a drop of marigold oil to banish the redness from eyes too long at her calligraphy.
Cosima looked down at herself. Her gown, too, was old and nearly threadbare at the hem. She had other gowns, as had her mother, but those were yet to be brought out this year. She doubted any occasion would present itself to have new gowns made. The ones they owned probably smelled of spices and orrisroot after being stored through the quiet winter, but that was far more pleasant than finding that moths had feasted on the items.
The gown Cosima wore had been her mother’s and probably very attractive when new. It was now fatally out of fashion, with balloon sleeves falling from the shoulders and an all-too-narrow skirt, weighted at the bottom with a row of fraying flounces. But it was still a beautiful shade of pink, casting Cosima’s dark eyes and hair in striking contrast.
Mama smiled at Cosima’s approach. To Cosima’s surprise, her mother did not rush off to greet their visitor. Instead she pressed Cosima’s hand into her own. “Cursed, so they say, you and I. But lovely still.”
Coldness touched Cosima’s heart at the pride her mother still possessed, even with that word forever attached to their names. Cursed, indeed.
Cosima looped her mother’s arm through hers and led her from the room.
…
Cosima and her mother were not long in the drawing room before Melvin arrived at the door and announced their guest.
“Osborn Linton, milady, employed in the household of Sir Reginald Hale, of London, England.”
Their visitor was a tall and slender man with graying hair and a thin mustache over narrow lips. Melvin had removed the man’s topcoat to reveal a well-made cutaway jacket and a plain waistcoat and shirt beneath, topped by a small white cravat tied at the throat. His trousers were dove colored, strapped beneath the feet and neatly tucked into black leather shoes, which were slightly pointed at the toe. For a workingman, obviously at least a valet, he was dressed to the height of English fashion.
From the corner of her eye, Cosima watched her mother smile as though she were a great lady whose portrait should next appear in the hallowed halls through which they’d just passed. At that moment it hardly mattered that she was instead the granddaughter of a wealthy Irish landlord, only married to an Englishman, and he, though of impeccable pedigree, was on his way to impoverishment if things in Ireland did not soon change. Nor did it seem to matter that this visitor was a servant instead of a man of means.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Escott,” Mr. Linton said with a bow. “If I might be so bold as to ask, does the name Hale sound at all familiar, madam?”
“Hale?” Mama repeated, as if pondering the name. At last she shook her head. “Forgive me, but no. Perhaps my husband would be better suited to give an answer, as he has relatives in England.”
“Yes, yes. Of course he would know a name so prominent in London business.”
Cosima said nothing, yet wondered why this man would make such an assumption. Even if her father still had connections to England—and to her knowledge he did not—the business class rarely mixed with that of aristocracy. And the portraits of the Escott family were decidedly aristocratic.
“Won’t you sit?” Mama asked, gesturing toward one of the Queen Anne chairs behind them.
As soon as Mama and Cosima were settled opposite him on the tapestry settee, the man swept aside the back of his cutaway, taking a seat. Cosima noticed his gaze lingering on her rather than on her mother, and for a moment she felt the tingle of chilled skin spread from head to toe. While the look was far from a leer, it was still an obvious assessment, leaving Cosima with the urge to hide.
“Your manservant informed me that Mr. Escott is away, attending to important matters. It might be best if I were to wait, but I find myself eager to impart the reason for my visit.”
“I would be pleased if you did so, Mr. Linton,” said Mama.
“My employer, Sir Reginald Hale, sends greetings and an inquiry regarding the subject of—” his gaze, which had left Cosima only a moment, now returned to her—“marriage to Miss Cosima Escott.”

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