Free The Oak Leaves by Maureen Lang

bothering you—those dates, I mean? I noticed you didn’t mention anything to Dana about it.”
    She shrugged, unwilling to talk about it. Not yet. “I suppose she’ll see it for herself when we hang the news on our wall.”
    “If you don’t want to . . .”
    She shook her head. “Like you said, whatever happened a hundred and fifty years ago doesn’t matter. Now, I really am tired, so I’ll see you upstairs if you make it up before I doze off.”
    Talie headed to their bedroom. She knew she’d have to share the journal sooner or later if she didn’t get rid of it altogether. It just didn’t seem the right time, when it made marriage sound so impossible. She should wait until Dana was married before sharing it. Dana might be all grown up by legal standards, but she’d been protected her entire life. Talie wasn’t about to change that now.
    And Luke? She didn’t worry about him. In fact, her reluctance to tell him everything was probably silly. He loved her.
    She would tell him, just as soon as she was sure there was nothing to Cosima’s tale. To decide that, she needed to read a little more, at least for the few minutes before Luke came up.

8
I feel very young and naive as I prepare to spend my first night in London. I am so tired I can barely hold my pen, but before I close my eyes I simply must record the unexpected turns this day has taken.
London is far busier than any city I have visited, even Dublin. The buildings are so close that one seems to lean into the next, with nothing but a varied facade indicating the end of one building and the beginning of another. Tall shadows cast the narrow streets into near darkness, even at four o’clock in the afternoon.
Sounds and smells come from everywhere. Everything from singing and laughter to shouts and cursing stung my ears as we drove through town. And the smells are every bit as varied, from refuse and worse to various meals in the midst of preparation: familiar cabbage, roasting pork, baking bread, and other scents not so easily recognized, both sweet and spicy. . . .
    “We’ll be coming to our journey’s end soon,” said Reginald with the first hint of emotion in his voice. He sounded like a young boy approaching a toy shop. “But if you don’t mind I’d like to take a detour past my friend Peter’s house. Would you be agreeable to that?”
    Although Cosima nodded, she realized he must have made the decision prior to asking the question, since a moment later the carriage slowed. Cosima heard Mr. Linton call out a greeting to a gatekeeper as they swept past with barely a pause in the horses’ stride.
    “This is the Hamilton London estate, Cosima,” Reginald said with as much pride as he might have displayed had the property been his own.
    And indeed the grounds were fine. Lush green lawns were interrupted only by hardy trees along the lane leading to a courtyard. Through the greenery Cosima glimpsed a high stone fence now and then, which undoubtedly spelled the boundaries of the Hamilton property.
    They neared the house—a magnificent structure with a door set high in the center, accessible by a wide double staircase arching out to each side. Wrought-iron balustrades fashioned in an intricate floral design guided the way safely upward. Flowers beckoned everywhere, from inside boxes hanging on the ironware to garden beds edging the courtyard.
    Almost immediately a footman appeared to open the carriage door and lay out the step. It felt good to stretch her legs. From Ireland they had taken a ship across the Irish Sea to Bristol, where horses were quickly hired and they went on their way in the Hale carriage still loaded with her goods straight from the ship.
    Cosima wore the same travel suit she’d had on the day before, but despite the fine Irish linen it was rumpled and limp, every bit as worn as Millie’s sturdy tarlatan skirt and jacket. Cosima suddenly wished she had not consented to stop by the house of Reginald’s friend. Surely her