On Sparrow Hill (3 page)

She rocked the lid loose. It was stuck tight from years of disuse. At last it came free, squeaking as she lifted it.

“Papers,” she said. “Letters, with a note on the top.”

“Does it say whose they are?”

Rebecca shook her head, reading bold words written at the top of the yellowed sheet of paper. “‘For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’” She looked at Quentin. “That’s from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans.”

“Does it say anything else?”

She read the rest of the note. “‘My dear Berrie’s life can be summed up by hope and worship, along with a fair share of suffering to keep her fixed on eternity. Enclosed are the letters she sent to me so long ago, when we were both young and had much to learn.’

“Hope, worship, and suffering,” Quentin said grimly. He looked from the box to Rebecca, holding her gaze. “The life of a Hamilton—and a Hollinworth. At least my father’s. Maybe mine, to some extent.”

She wanted to dwell on his observation, discuss the suffering he’d been through since the loss of his brother and father when their small plane went down in a fog, ask countless questions to fathom if it had turned him bitter or soft toward worship. But old fears stood in the way. Too personal, don’t pry. And yet . . . the look in his eye . . . Perhaps he wanted her to.

No sooner had she identified such a look than it disappeared. “Let’s take this with us to the veranda, shall we?” he said. “Have a peek over dinner, before it gets too dark outside?”

She nodded, following him from the vault.

Minutes later Rebecca sat with the box on her lap. The sun set to the west, and the scent of a 150-year-old rose garden wafted on the air to mingle with the enticing smell of potted chicken, herb bread, and almond tarts.

Despite having been tucked away in an environmentally regulated vault, the words were fading, particularly along the creases. But they were still legible.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” she asked. “A portion of your family’s history is here, perhaps something you don’t yet know about.”

Quentin shrugged. “I confess I’ll be interested in contacting this American relative who inspired our search. Beyond that I haven’t nearly the fascination for the past that you—and the American, I presume—have. Read one.”

Rebecca obeyed. The letter on top was addressed in a neat, feminine script.

To Cosima Hamilton

“Not
from
your great-great-great-grandmother.
To
her. To Cosima.” Rebecca realized she’d reverently whispered only after the words left her mouth.

“From Berrie, I assume from the note,” he said. “That would be Beryl, from the portrait next to the one of Cosima and Peter Hamilton.”

Untying the ribbon, Rebecca gently opened the fragile envelope. Whatever wax had once sealed it had long since dried, leaving behind a faint blue shade. She glanced down the page. “It goes into some detail.”

“Let me,” he said, setting aside his cup. “It’s the only way I can prove I’m not bored by the topic, historical though it is, and at the same time give you a chance to eat.”

Rebecca put the letter into his outstretched hand, took a bite of the creamy chicken, then pushed it away and settled back in her chair.

She knew exactly what Beryl Hamilton had looked like. Berrie was forever young in Rebecca’s mind and lovely, too. She had dark hair like her brother Peter’s, though she didn’t have his dark brown eyes. Rather, Berrie had unimaginably blue ones that somehow survived in Quentin today.

Rebecca had no trouble picturing what it was like on the day Berrie Hamilton had written that letter. . . .

2

* * *

Loving greetings from Berrie, April 6, 1852

My dear Cosima,

Do you recall I once feared that I should find myself before the judgment seat of God with an unlit lamp? There I might have stood, ordained with some talent—surely I had one; I convinced myself of that—and yet not having used that with which I had been blessed.

But I have begun to fear I am ill-equipped to answer what God has called me to do. My life, to date, simply has not paved a way for me to serve but rather to be served, to my shame. I was raised to think I should be wife and mother, yet in such a role would I have served even a family? Had I the faintest idea what true servanthood really is?

Besides those shortcomings, even if I were qualified for this role, there are many things beyond my control. Despite these two years of planning, studying, and preparation, I have now reached the point where others must make the final decisions. Let me list some of the outsiders I now find myself beholden to: First, various inspectors, surveyors, clerks, and officers of health must approve of all I have done. Second, I must rely upon the long-lasting generosity of donors. Third, and perhaps most importantly, I must establish—then maintain—the trust of parents bringing their children here.

And another thing I shall need, as taught to me already by your dear brother Royboy: I need physical perseverance as never before to answer this calling.

Yesterday was a prime example of my ineptitude. The day began with such promise, yet before the sun was very high I proved the depth of my incompetence. . . .

Berrie breathed in the lavender-scented air and turned around to assess the distance traveled. She’d made it all the way up the hill today.

Just a week before that had been impossible, with her pampered lungs and muscles as untried as a baby’s. Mrs. Cotgrave, with her hefty bosom and at least a score of added years, was in better condition than Berrie.

From atop the hill, Berrie saw Escott Manor. No less than eight chimneys dotted the roof, and perhaps this winter each one would be in use, after the students arrived. The thought quickened her heartbeat, and this time such a pulse had nothing to do with exertion.

It was almost breakfast time, and Berrie’s day would begin with Royboy. His wavy blond hair and smiling hazel eyes that reminded Berrie of a Van Dyck portrait. Her sister-in-law, Cosima Hamilton, was right that though her brother might be chronologically sixteen, he was in mind and behavior no more than three.

When she returned to the manor, Berrie found him already up and dressed, thanks to Decla. The woman was a wonder-worker, and Berrie thanked her at least a half dozen times a day for staying behind when she could easily have gone with Mrs. Escott to England. In what had undoubtedly been a difficult decision, Decla had remained to work with those who needed the skills of someone with her experience. No one would have missed her more than Royboy, of course, even if he didn’t have the words to express such a thing.

“Good morning, miss,” said Decla as Berrie took a seat opposite Royboy in the dining room. Decla oversaw Royboy’s table habits, something she used to do in the kitchen. Upon transference of Escott Manor into Berrie’s hands for the school, everyone used the dining room. The banquet hall that had once served the brother of a duke—and before that, landed Irish gentry—would soon be filled with students and their caregivers. No lines here between servants and those they served, since those served would average in competency from Royboy to . . . Berrie had no idea. Yet.

“Good morning.”

“Greet Miss Hamilton, Royboy,” Decla encouraged.

Without looking up from his plate, Royboy said, “How do you do.”

“I’m very well, Royboy. And how are you today?”

“Now say, ‘Very well, thank you,’” Decla modeled.

“Thank you,” Royboy echoed the last two words as he took a bite of bread too large before Decla could stop him. The bread fell out of his mouth as he spoke, but he caught it on his lap and stuffed it back inside. Then he repeated, “Thank you.”

That was a satisfactory effort as far as Berrie was concerned. In fact she was quite pleased. “I’ll have a bit to eat, too, Royboy,” said Berrie, “and then we’ll be off to our very first lesson. Would you like that?”

He didn’t answer or look her way. His lack of response was something Berrie was adjusting to. It wasn’t as if he were ignoring her, Cosima had explained. No, quite the contrary. Royboy took in everything. He acknowledged almost nothing.

Berrie ate a light breakfast, finished her tea, then invited Royboy to come with her. This was to be a lesson for her as well as him. Royboy, in many ways, would be her teacher. For the past two years, Berrie had read essays from doctors who worked with the infirm in both France and England. She’d corresponded with other teachers before making the decision to come to Ireland. Indeed, that was how she’d found the wonderful Mrs. Cotgrave. Through letters from those who worked in such schools in England.

But here was the real learning. With Royboy. And for Berrie it began today. At the very least, by the time they accepted their first paid student, Berrie intended to have grown in experience.

They made their way upstairs to a classroom. It had once been a small parlor, still lovely with its green silk wallpaper, complementary green curtains pulled aside into bronze holdbacks. The occasional tables and knickknacks had been removed and sold, replaced instead by one functional table and a few sturdy chairs.

“Come and sit, Royboy,” Berrie said with the singsong tone Cosima had told her Royboy loved.

Royboy sat without having to be told twice. Surely this was where they both belonged! She pulled another chair closer to his, taking up the small stack of watercolor drawings she had placed in the room last night. Berrie had spent hours creating various drawings, representing images captured from outdoor nature to familiar household items. Vivid shades marked each picture, with large letters identifying such things as trees and leaves, birds and butterflies, lamps, furniture, and windows.

“How do you like this, Royboy?” Berrie handed him a drawing of a brilliant fritillary butterfly, wings extended, orange and black drawn as near the likeness of the insect as she’d witnessed alternately floating and resting along the edge of the manor garden. “Can you say
butterfly
?”

Royboy accepted the colorful drawing, mumbled something that might have been
butterfly
, then held the sheet closer to his face.

Raising it above his head, Royboy’s gaze soon left the picture as he placed both hands toward the center of the upper edge, easily tearing it in two.

Berrie, heart racing and sinking at the same time, leaned toward the drawing. He held it beyond her reach to tear another portion, crinkling the triangular shape and stuffing it quickly into his mouth.

“No, Royboy! You mustn’t eat it.” She did then what came naturally and tried to retrieve the crumpled paper from between his teeth. Such strong teeth, she learned as they clamped down on her fingers. “Oh! Ouch! Oh . . .”

3

* * *

Rebecca leaned forward, taking the letter from Quentin’s outstretched hand.

“You might be able to use some of the information in there for your tour scripts,” he said, taking a bite of what was surely by now cold chicken. “We have my American relatives to thank for that.”

“Should I contact them, then?”

“Of course. My family could use a bit of expansion, I think.”

Rebecca nodded, though she doubted his mother would think so.

“Invite them here, if they intend coming over some time.”

Rebecca eyed him. Strangers? Not that she was in accord with his mother’s line of thinking, that anyone worth knowing was already in their circle. But Americans, if she were to generalize, were among the boldest visitors to the Hall. In speech, clothing, and behavior.

“For a tour, at least,” he said softly.

“Of course,” she said. That much she could handle.

She soon took the letters back to her office, where she sent an e-mail to the genealogy service inviting direct contact with the American cousins.

Perhaps she should have said something to Quentin, asked him about his mother’s public comment to privatize the Hall. Perhaps, if Rebecca had an inkling of suspicion that was his intention, she might have.

Instead she kept silent, preferring to put off the battle if one was to be had. The Featherby would cement the value of the work she did here, if Quentin did lean toward his mother’s way of thinking. This particular award’s emphasis was exactly where Rebecca’s efforts glowed: reaching the youth to show them firsthand how this country—their country—had lived in its glory days.

Surely even Quentin’s mother could be convinced of the importance of that.

Rebecca picked up another letter. If this correspondence added to the Hollinworth family’s noble history, Rebecca was just the one to make sure everyone knew about it.

4

* * *

Have you any guess, Cosima, how much paperwork accompanies opening this school? Mr. Truebody, the justice of the peace whom I mentioned in my last letter, is excruciatingly exacting. Not only must our documents be submitted in a timely manner, but if any flaw is found—and by that I mean anything from a misspelled word to the smallest smudge—it is sent back to be completely redone. Not fixed, mind you. Begun again and submitted without evidence of any error.

Your father’s library has become my office, though what books were left behind have been sold for quite a nice profit. I am assured by Mrs. Cotgrave that the volumes are better off in the hands of those who will read them instead of worrying over pages being torn, bindings being ripped.

Your father’s large desk is littered with no less than fifty sheets of paper, various forms of one sort or another. How can such a simple idea as to help those born less fortunate create such a mass of documentation?

I have no idea what I would do without Mrs. Cotgrave. I beg you to keep her in your prayers, because I am quite certain without her our school would be a miserable failure already!

“Legal sanction, lunacy commission, certificates of insanity, reception orders, election applicants . . . Oh! I think we shall be blockaded by ordinance and procedure before we accept our first student.”

Mrs. Cotgrave smiled serenely from behind her own pile of paperwork. “Never fret, Miss Berrie. Soon we’ll have a staff in place, but if you’re to run things, you need to know what’s what. Don’t you?”