Simply Magic (17 page)

It was all horribly irksome. Perhaps he would have faced it all and dealt with it all if he had not been so mortally depressed. But despite the enthusiasm with which he had jumped from his carriage on his arrival, he could not shake off the gloom he had carried with him from Hareford House.

Everything seemed somehow ruined.

Finally, after a few weeks, he thought to himself—and his reasoning seemed quite sound—that he might as well leave until the new year when he could be present for all the upcoming spring planning. A new year would be a better time—the perfect time—for starting the new life he had promised himself. He might even go back for Christmas. Some of his sisters were sure to be there, and he was fond of them—and of his numerous nieces and nephews.

And so he drifted off back to London, using as an excuse the fact that he needed to visit his tailor and his bootmaker. There he lived a life of increasingly busy idleness as he searched out one diversion after another. It was surprising how many could be found even during such an unseasonable month as October.

There was a comfortable familiarity about such a life.

Except that diversions did not always divert.

Activities that had always amused him well enough before suddenly seemed to have lost their power to distract his mind from his overall dissatisfaction with the way his life was proceeding.

His mother's letters informed him that the new paintings had arrived for the drawing room, which was now looking so much lovelier than any other room in the house that she was considering making changes to the dining room next.

Good Lord, he was going to have to do something to stop her.

Barbara, his eldest sister, who happened to spend a few days in London with her husband during the autumn, mentioned Christmas.

“You will be at Sidley, I hope,” she said. “Clarence and I will be there with the children, and it will be too, too dreary if you are not also there, Peter. Besides, Mama is inviting other guests, and it is only right that you be there as host.”

“Other guests?” He grimaced. “Who is she this time?”

Barbara clucked her tongue while Clarence waggled his eyebrows at his brother-in-law and held his peace.

“I have no idea,” she said. “But there will be
someone,
of course. Mama is
concerned
about you, Peter. She wants to see you well settled. It is foolish of you to be stubborn merely because you did not like Bertha Grantham five years ago and did not admit it until the last possible moment.”

None of his sisters had any idea what had happened on that occasion, and he had no wish to enlighten any of them.

Peter met his brother-in-law's eyes again and watched one of them depress in a slow wink.

“I'll choose my own bride in my own good time, Barb,” he said. “I'll think about Christmas.”

But thinking about brides made him feel more wretched than ever. In the almost two months since he had left Somerset, he had still not recovered from his terrible sense of guilt.

Good Lord, he had debauched an innocent!

There were no excuses. None.

He felt sick whenever he thought of that afternoon on the wilderness walk. And it was almost impossible not to think of it at least a dozen times every day.

It seemed somehow worse to have learned that her father had killed himself. Not that that sad event was in any way his fault or linked to the events of the summer, but even so…He had
liked
Osbourne. He liked the daughter.

Whenever such thoughts threatened to cause his head to explode, he went out again in search of another entertainment to take his mind off things.

Finally, at the end of October, he decided that a change of scenery might cheer him up and headed off to spend a week or two with his cousin Lauren, Viscountess Ravensberg, at Alvesley Park in Wiltshire, where she lived with Kit, her husband, and their children, and with Kit's parents, the Earl and Countess of Redfield. He had a standing invitation to go there and always enjoyed himself when he did.

They were fond of each other, he and Lauren, perhaps because they had been kept apart until he reached adulthood and discovered an invitation to her wedding among his pile of mail one day after he returned from one of his walking tours. His mail had never come directly to him until he turned twenty-one, and he had never met Lauren—had hardly even heard of her, in fact, except as the possibly illegitimate daughter of a mother of loose morals: widow of his father's elder brother, a former Viscount Whitleaf. He had gone to the wedding, though he had arrived only just in time, and discovered that Lauren was lovely and charming and most definitely not illegitimate—her eyes were the exact same unusual color and shade as his own.

He went to Alvesley now to stay and did indeed enjoy himself there—spending hours in company with Lauren and the Countess of Redfield, playing with the three children, riding and discussing farming business and politics with Kit and the earl, visiting neighbors, including the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle, playing with
their
baby, much to the amusement of the duchess and her sister, Miss Thompson, who remarked with a laugh that the babe was habitually too cross to be anyone's favorite except his mama and papa's. And his grandmama's, Mrs. Thompson added reproachfully.

Though
enjoyment,
of course, seemed to be a relative term these days. He still could not shrug off his underlying feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction with himself.

And then fate took a startlingly strange hand in his destiny.

Perhaps it ought not to have startled him quite as much as it did. Already, soon after his arrival, he had discovered the almost incredibly coincidental fact that he had just missed seeing Sydnam Butler, Lauren's brother-in-law, who had been home for a week with his new bride, the former Miss Anne Jewell, a teacher at Miss Martin's School for Girls in Bath—and one of Susanna's particular friends, Peter remembered. And already, on visiting Bewcastle, he had remembered the connection Susanna had felt existed between the school and Lady Hallmere, Bewcastle's sister.

But then, almost a week into his stay, he learned that Lauren and the duchess between them had just finalized plans for a surprise wedding breakfast in honor of the newlyweds, who had married quietly and by special license in Bath. Lauren was involved because Sydnam was her brother-in-law, the duchess because he was the steward at Bewcastle's Welsh estate.

Their plan was to gather as many relatives and friends in Bath as they could muster on short notice, lure the bride and groom there on some pretext, and then surprise them with a grand celebration of their marriage at the Upper Assembly Rooms.

“We are all going from here,” Lauren explained one day during tea. “We would love for you to come with us, Peter, would we not, Kit? But I understand that a journey to Bath and a wedding breakfast may hold out no great allure for you. Perhaps you would prefer to go home, though if you do go, I will feel that I have driven you away.” She laughed. “Oh,
will
you come? To please me?”

She would never know the turmoil her words had set up within him.

He was actually being invited—even urged—to go to Bath. But not just that. It seemed altogether probable that he would see Susanna there if he went. Surely as a friend and former colleague of the bride she would be invited to this wedding breakfast.

He could see her again.

She surely would not wish to see
him,
though, he reminded himself. By now she probably hated him as some sort of archvillain, and how could he blame her if she did? Dash it all, first he had debauched her, then he had made her a most improper offer, and then he had escorted her back to Barclay Court, bidden her a cheerful farewell in company with the Edgecombes, and gone riding off without a backward glance.

At the time he had convinced himself that it was because she had said it must be that way.

But he had guessed something about the newlyweds, though neither Lauren nor the duchess was indiscreet enough actually to put it into words. The new Mrs. Butler was probably with child—a fact that would explain both the haste and the secrecy of the nuptials. She had spent a month of the summer in Wales, he could recall Susanna's saying—doubtless on the very estate where Sydnam was steward. She had gone there with the Hallmeres, had she not?

And his suspicions led him suddenly to wonder if perhaps Susanna too…

The very thought was enough to cause his stomach to lurch into a somersault and leave him feeling decidedly queasy.

But surely if it were so she would have let him know. She would have written to him.

Would she?

He knew very well she would not.

Good Lord! Damn it to hell! He should have thought of it sooner and made an effort to discover the truth for himself. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do—if there
were
a gentlemanly way to handle such a situation. Or
had
he thought of it and suppressed the ghastly possibility? He was not a total ignoramus after all, was he? He knew what frequently resulted when men slept with women.

Perhaps he had assumed that if he suppressed the thought, the whole ghastly possibility would just go away.

All these jumbled thoughts and counterthoughts flashed through his head in a mere second or two while he smiled cheerfully back at Lauren.

“I have nothing better to do with myself,” he said, “and I would like to see Sydnam again and wish him happy. Yes, I would be delighted to go with you.”

He had thought he would never see Susanna Osbourne again.

He had even thought that within a week or two he might forget how badly he had treated her. Perhaps it was to his credit that he had not done so, though he certainly did not congratulate himself too highly on that score.

But now he was going to Bath. And he almost certainly
was
going to see her once more.

It was necessary that he do so, he told himself. He would far rather go somewhere else. But he did need to discover if he had done her any lasting harm, and it really was too bad of him that he had left it so long.

Oh, dash it all! What if?…

Yes, indeed.

What if?

13

Susanna returned to Bath in the Earl of Edgecombe's well-sprung
traveling carriage. By the time it rocked to a halt outside the school on Daniel Street, she had tucked away all her raw, bruised emotions deep inside herself and was able to smile as the door opened and Mr. Keeble peered out. Almost immediately Claudia and then Anne came hurrying past him out onto the pavement, both beaming happily as they waited to hug her.

All her emotions were generally happy ones for the next little while as she assured her friends and then the girls, whom she joined in the middle of their tea, that she was
very
delighted to be back even though she had had an absolutely
marvelous
time in Somerset. And they all looked delighted to see
her
. She felt enveloped in familiarity and love.

She was home.

And from this moment on she would have plenty with which to occupy her mind. There was a whole busy school term to plan for and look forward to.

The journey, comfortable as the earl's carriage undoubtedly was, had been dreadful. With only herself for company, she had been unable to stop the memories of the past two weeks from churning around and around in her head—particularly, of course, the memory of that last afternoon. She could still scarcely believe that it had actually happened—that she had
allowed
it to happen. But it had—and she had. She had been aware with every turn of the carriage wheels that she was moving farther and farther from
him
—which was a foolish thought indeed when they had always been universes apart.

Even when they were children his sister had been horrified to see them playing together and had dragged him away.

She had had her great adventure, her grand romance of a lifetime, Susanna decided with great good sense once she was back home, and now it was time to get back to reality.

And yet her determination to be cheerful was tested the very evening of her return. Claudia had gone out to dine with the parents of one of the new pupils, and Anne had invited Susanna to come and sit in her room for a while after all the girls had gone to their dormitory.

Susanna sat on the bed, always her favorite perch, her arms clasped about her raised knees, while Anne sat on the chair beside her desk. They talked about Frances for a while until Anne broke a short, not uncomfortable silence with a question.

“And what of you?” she asked. “Did you really have a lovely time? Did you meet anyone interesting?”

For one moment Susanna considered pouring out the whole sorry story to her friend. But it was just too intensely personal—especially its ending. Maybe later, when the memories were not quite so raw, she would confide in Anne, but not now. Not yet.

“Like a duke to sweep me off my feet and bear me off to his castle as his bride?” She laughed at the old joke. “No, not quite, alas. But Frances and Lord Edgecombe were very obliging, Anne, and made sure that there was some entertainment for me to attend almost every day, even though I am sure they would have been just as happy to relax and be quiet together after being away for so long. I met some amiable and interesting people, most of whom I knew from before, of course.”

“But no one special?” Anne asked.

Susanna's heart felt like a leaden weight in her chest.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Only one gentleman,” Susanna said reluctantly, “who made his intentions very clear, and they were not honorable ones. It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind. And you? You told us a great deal about your Welsh holiday the evening before I left, but nothing that was very personal. Did
you
meet anyone interesting?”

Anne and her son, David, had gone to Wales to spend a month with the Bedwyn family on the Duke of Bewcastle's estate.

“The Bedwyns,” Anne said, smiling, “are all quite fascinating, Susanna—and that is actually an understatement. The Duke of Bewcastle is every bit as formidable as he is reputed to be. He has cold silver eyes and long fingers that are forever curling about the handle of his quizzing glass. He is quite terrifying. And yet he was unfailingly courteous to me. The duchess is a delight and not at all high in the instep, and it is quite clear that he adores her though he is never ever demonstrative in public. He also adores their son, who is a cross, demanding little baby—except when his father is holding him. And he holds him rather often. He is a strange, mysterious, fascinating man.”

Susanna rested her chin on her knees. She was thinking of how words could be true and yet a massive lie at the same time.
It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind.
Just as if the whole relationship with Viscount Whitleaf had been that trivial, that unimportant.

“All this talk of married dukes is depressing me,” she said, smiling as if her heart were not breaking. “Was there no one who was
unmarried
?”

“No dukes.” Anne smiled too.

Something in her tone alerted Susanna.

“Oh, Anne,” she said.
“Who?”

“No one really,” Anne said quickly, shifting position on the chair. “Oh, what a dreadful thing to say of another human being. He very definitely is
someone
. He is the duke's steward at Glandwr. He was alone and I was alone, and so it was natural enough that occasionally we walk out together or sit together on evenings when he was invited to dine. That is all.”

“All,” Susanna repeated. “And was he tall, dark, and handsome, Anne?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “All three.”

Susanna continued to gaze at her.

“We were merely friends,” Anne said.

“Were you?” Susanna spoke softly.

“We were. We were…very dear friends,” Anne said.

But Susanna knew something as clearly as if they had both poured out their hearts to each other. They had both met someone very special indeed during their holidays. And they had both returned with bruised, perhaps even broken, hearts.

“But he did not make an offer,” she said. “Anne, I am so sorry.”

There was a lengthy silence, during which Anne did not contradict her.

“Do you think,” Susanna asked at last, “life would be easier, Anne, if one had parents and family to take one about, to make sure one met suitable people, to arrange for one to meet eligible suitors? Would it be easier than living at a girls' school as one of the teachers?”

It seemed absurd, she thought, to miss her mother so very much even now when she was twenty-three—her mother, whom she had never known.

“I am not sure,” Anne said, closing the curtains again, “that life is ever easy. Very often girls and women make disastrous marriages even while surrounded by family to help guide their choice or make it for them. I think given the choice between a bad marriage and life here, I would choose being here every time. In fact, I am certain I would.”

“It was
so
ungrateful of me,” Susanna said, “even to ask that question. Good fortune was smiling on me when I was sent here to school, and I was blessed beyond belief when Claudia offered me a position on the staff. And I have such very good friends here. What more could I ask of life?”

“Ah, but we are women as well as teachers, Susanna,” Anne said as she resumed her seat. “We have needs that nature has given us for the very preservation of our species.”

Ah, and that was the trouble. That was the whole trouble. Without those needs, Susanna thought, she might have escaped unscathed from her summer holiday. She might have gone through the rest of her life convincing herself that Viscount Whitleaf had been just a temporary though dear friend whom she missed.

“And sometimes,” she said, “they are very hard to ignore. I was
very
tempted this summer, Anne. To be a man's mistress. Part of me is still not convinced that I made the right choice. And will I be able to make the same choice next time? And the next?”

As if there ever would or
could
be a next time.

And she had been tempted in more than one way, hadn't she? And had certainly not resisted one of those temptations.

“I don't know,” Anne said.

“What poor, sad spinsters we are,” Susanna said, laughing and getting up from her perch on the bed. “I am for my lonely bed. The journey has tired me out. Good night, Anne.”

Three days later all the boarders returned to school and with them several new girls, including two charity pupils who needed a great deal of care and attention. And the day after that the day girls returned and classes started.

It was a relief to be busy again.

It was even more of a relief—and that was a massive understatement—to discover two weeks later that she was not with child, that her great indiscretion had had no lasting consequences. None that would be observable to anyone else, anyway.

And yet, perversely, the discovery left her feeling freshly bereft.

Now it was all definitely and finally over.

Her heart, her very life, had never felt more frighteningly empty.

         

It was not finally over for Anne.

One Saturday morning late in September a sudden deluge of rain sent Susanna and a class of girls under her supervision dashing back inside the school from the open meadows beyond Daniel Street, where they always went for their games lessons. Susanna sent the girls up to their dormitories to dry off and would have taken her own wet cloak and bonnet up to her room before meeting them in the grand hall for indoor games, but Mr. Keeble informed her that she was wanted in the office, that he had already asked Miss Walton to supervise the hall.

She found Claudia and Anne waiting for her and smiled when she saw a nice warm fire crackling in the grate. It was a chilly day outside.

“We are to lose Anne, Susanna,” Claudia said sternly and without preamble. “She is to marry Mr. Sydnam Butler, son of the Earl of Redfield and steward at the Welsh estate of
the Duke of Bewcastle
.”

Poor Claudia could never utter that last name without some venom in her voice. Her final position as a governess, which had been with Lady Freyja Bedwyn as her pupil and the Duke of Bewcastle as her employer, had left her with a lasting antipathy toward both. She heartily despised them though she did concede that without that more-than-unpleasant experience she might never have summoned the courage to open her own school.

But Susanna did not spare much thought for Claudia. She had looked into Anne's ashen face, and she instantly
knew
.

“Oh, Anne,” she said, closing the distance between them and hugging her friend tightly.

“I have told her that she need not do it,” Claudia said. “I have told her we will find some alternative. But she insists.”

“Of course I do.” Anne stepped back from Susanna's arms and smiled with ghastly cheerfulness at both of them. “I
want
to marry Mr. Butler. I am
fond
of him. I am not marrying him just because I am with child. I
am
with child, Susanna.”

“We are all going to have a nice cup of tea,” Claudia said with iron calm. “And we are all going to sit down. Not necessarily in that order.”

Susanna was glad of the chair. She could guess exactly the way it was. Anne was more than fond of Mr. Butler, but Mr. Butler was the son of an earl. He had allowed Anne to return to Bath without offering her marriage. Yet now he was doing the honorable thing and marrying her after all—but only because he must.

Poor Anne! What a dreadful thing it was for her to be facing a marriage in which her feelings were engaged when she would always know that his were not.

And it could so easily have happened to her too, Susanna thought, a chill about her heart even while the fire warmed her toes and her face.

Except that she would never have let Viscount Whitleaf know if she had shared Anne's fate. And she doubted he would have offered marriage even if she had.

Oh, but she did not know, did she, what she would have done if it really had happened. Or what he might have done if he had found out. Her knees turned weak at the thought of how close she had come to disaster.

Anne had not had her fortunate escape.

Susanna did not meet Mr. Butler until the day, two weeks later, when the wedding took place by special license in Claudia's private sitting room. He had been badly maimed as a soldier during the Peninsular Wars—he had lost an arm and an eye and was badly burned all down the right side of his face. He was also, as Anne had told Susanna on the evening after her return from Somerset, tall, dark, and handsome. Susanna told him so with a twinkle in her eye after the brief service, when Anne was already his wife—but she said it only because it seemed to her that he was a good-humored man and she thought it altogether possible that he did care for Anne.

She hoped so. Oh, she
hoped
so.

And she tried very hard not to be envious—but how very foolish to even
think
of being envious when she had been pitying Anne so deeply for the past fortnight. Sometimes human emotions made no sense at all.

She did dare to hope, though, that Anne had found her happily-ever-after despite everything. It appeared that Mr. Butler was even going to be kind to David, though it was not equally obvious that David was going to take kindly to the existence in his life of a new stepfather.

Susanna and Claudia stood on the pavement outside the school after the small reception they had given for the newlyweds, waving the three of them on their way back to Wales.

“Susanna,” Claudia said as the carriage turned the corner onto Sutton Street and moved out of sight, “I expected that my heart would break today. But maybe it does not have to after all. What do you think?”

“I believe,” Susanna said, “there is fondness on one side and honor on the other—and even that would offer promise for the future. But I think there is also a little bit of love on both sides.”