On Sparrow Hill (41 page)

* * *

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 fear” 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.