Simply Magic (24 page)

He remembered even as he spoke that Susanna had spent her childhood at Fincham Manor. He would not mention her name to them, though. It was altogether possible that she would not wish it.

Actually, he had been trying ever since he woke up from a broken, troubled sleep not to think too much of Susanna at all. Good Lord, he had offered her marriage last night—
and she had refused him.

You need to look deeper into your own heart. You need to learn to like yourself too.

Ah, yes, and then there was that. Best not to think of it.

“I understand that congratulations are in order,” he said to Edith. “I trust you have recovered your health after your confinement? And that the child is well?”

“Both,” she said, smiling. “But Lawrence thought a change of air would do us good, and so he has taken lodgings on Laura Place for a month. It
is
good to see you again, Peter, and looking surely more handsome than ever. All the ladies here look as if they would gobble you up if given half a chance.”

Her eyes twinkled into his, and they all laughed.

“I came to attend a wedding breakfast a few days ago,” he explained, “and stayed on for a few days before returning to London.”

They chattered amiably for a few minutes before Edith set a hand on his sleeve.

“Peter,” she said, “I
must
ask, though it does seem impertinent. The lady you were escorting last evening—she was not…Could she possibly have been Susanna Osbourne, by any chance?”

It was impossible to avoid answering such a direct question.

“Yes,” he said. “I ran into her this summer and again at the wedding breakfast. The bride is a friend of hers while the groom is my cousin's brother-in-law.”

Edith's hand tightened on his arm.

“Oh, she
is
alive, then,” she said. “I have always wondered.”

“She disappeared,” Lady Markham explained, “after her father died. None of our efforts to find her was successful, though we were quite frantic. We never heard of or from her again. It was all very distressing on top of everything else, as perhaps you remember, Whitleaf. Or perhaps not. You were away at school at the time, I believe. Susanna was only twelve years old, far too young to be out in the world on her own. But what could we do? We had no idea where to start looking, though we
did
look for a long time.”

“Well,” Peter said, smiling, “now after all this time you may take comfort from the knowledge that she did survive.”

“Where is she living or staying, Peter?” Edith asked eagerly. “I would love to call on her, to speak with her. We were the dearest of friends. We were almost like sisters. It broke my heart when she disappeared.”

“Perhaps,” he said warily, looking apologetically from one to the other of them, “she ran away and stayed away because she felt a need to break the connection with her father's employers. Perhaps the memory of anything or anyone to do with him is still just too painful. Perhaps she felt she had good—”

“And perhaps,” Edith said, smiling ruefully, “you are too much the gentleman to betray her trust, Peter. We understand, do we not, Mama?”

“You see,” he said, “it took her a while during the summer to tell me who she was even though she had recognized me, or at least my name, immediately. And even then she would tell me only that her father had died at Fincham—of a heart attack, she led me to believe. It was Theo who told me the truth about his suicide after I went home. I suppose it is understandable that Miss Osbourne may not want any reminders of that time.”

And a distinct possibility had struck him. Had she seen Lady Markham and Edith last evening and recognized them? Was that why she had been in such a hurry to leave the Abbey as soon as the concert ended, even though she had appeared to be enjoying the evening immensely until then?

“But we never understood her leaving,” Lady Markham said with a sigh. “She was only a child and her father had just died. We had always treated her well, almost as if she were one of our own, and Edith positively adored her. One would have expected her to turn to us for comfort.”

“If you see her again, Peter,” Edith said, “will you ask her if I may call on her? Or if she will call on me if she wishes to remain secretive about her exact whereabouts?”

“I will ask,” he promised. But he could not resist asking another question of his own.

“
Why
did Osbourne kill himself?” He addressed himself to Lady Markham. “Did you ever find out?”

She hesitated noticeably.

“I am surprised,” she said, “that you did not even know of the suicide until Theo told you recently. You were fond of Mr. Osbourne, as I recall, and he of you. However, I suppose it was to be expected that Lady Whitleaf would want to protect you from such a harsh truth, and she would have sworn your sisters to secrecy. As for William Osbourne's reason for doing what he did, that died with him, the poor man.”

“He did not leave a note for Lord Markham?” Peter asked.

She hesitated again.

“He did,” she said. But she did not elaborate, and he disliked intruding any further into a subject on which she was clearly reluctant to talk. It must, of course, have been a remarkably distressing episode in her life. He did, however, ask one more question.

“Did he also leave a note for Sus—For Miss Osbourne?” he asked.

“Yes, he did,” she said.

“Did she read it?”

“Both notes were folded neatly inside the final updated page of a ledger inside the drawer of his desk,” she told him, “and were understandably not discovered until after his burial. By then Susanna was gone without a trace. It would be as well to leave it at that now, Whitleaf. It is an old, unhappy story and best forgotten. But it does have a happy ending of sorts after all. Susanna is alive and apparently well. Is she? Well? And happy?”

“Both, I believe,” he said.

He knew that he had made her very unhappy during the summer. Even now he liked to believe that the prospect of saying good-bye to him again saddened her. But honesty forced him to admit that she lived a life that brought her security and friendship and satisfaction and perhaps even happiness. He was not necessary to her life. She could live very well without him. He had not lied to Lady Markham.

It was a humbling thought—that Susanna did not need him, that last evening she had actually refused his marriage offer, which from any material point of view must be seen as extremely advantageous to her. She had told him he needed to learn to like himself. Before saying good night to him, she had removed her glove and touched his cheek with gentle fingertips—as if
he
were the one who needed tenderness and comfort.

As if
she
were the strong, secure one.

He took his leave of Lady Markham and Edith after promising to call upon them in Laura Place before he left Bath. A few minutes later he left the Pump Room and walked back to his hotel for breakfast.

18

Some days in November could still retain traces of the glory of autumn
and even a hint of a lost summer, though the trees were bare of leaves and the plants of flowers. But usually such days came at a time when duty forced one to remain busy indoors, enjoying the weather only in the occasional glance through a window.

This particular Saturday was such a day. But this time Susanna was able to enjoy it to the full. It was games day, and the whole morning was spent outdoors in the meadows beyond the school with those girls who chose air and vigorous exercise over embroidery and tatting and crochet. As often happened, Susanna gave in to the urgings of the girls and her own inclination and joined in the games herself with the result that her cheeks were glowing with color by the time she led the two orderly lines back to school for luncheon. And though she was breathless, her body hummed with energy.

And the morning exercise was not all. The afternoon offered a rare treat—a walk, perhaps in Sydney Gardens, which were close by but rarely visited because of the admission fee—and with a gentleman, no less.

She would not be quite human, Susanna supposed as she changed into her Sunday-best wool dress after luncheon and brushed her hair, if she were not bubbling over with excitement and exhilaration at the prospect. The first blush of youth had passed her by with very little in the way of entertainments and nothing in the way of beaux.

Her exuberance was not even much diminished by the memory of the night before. Viscount Whitleaf had offered her marriage last evening and she had refused. In all probability she would never see him again after today. But it was by her own choice, was it not? She had refused to go away with him during the summer. Last evening she had refused to marry him. And she would say no again, to both offers, if they were repeated. And so she had no cause to complain or mope or weep—she had done altogether too much of all three. In fact, she had every reason to be proud of herself. She loved him, but she had refused to allow that fact to tempt her to cling, to hold on to him at all costs.

He did not love her, but that did not matter. He
liked
her. That was enough.

He had not mentioned a specific time for coming this afternoon. Susanna went downstairs when she was ready and into the art room, where Mr. Upton was working with some of the girls to design sets for the Christmas play and concert. Miss Thompson was in there with them, her dress protected by a large white apron as if she were about to paint the sets right there and then.

“I have been informed,” she told Susanna, detaching herself from the huddled group, “that teaching at Miss Martin's school involves more than just imparting knowledge to a quiet, receptive class of girls. And so here I am, discovering whether I have the talent and the stamina to offer more. And to think that I could be at Lindsey Hall now, peacefully reading a book!”

She looked as if she were enjoying herself enormously. Her eyes were twinkling—a characteristic expression with her.

Susanna laughed.

“But the preparations for the Christmas concert are always a great deal of fun,” she said. “
And
hard work.”

“How will this suit you, Miss Osbourne?” Mr. Upton called, beckoning her over to a table covered with sketches. He did not usually come in to school on a Saturday, but he probably would do so every week between now and the end of term.

But Susanna had time only to glance at the sketches for her play sets and comment upon what she liked and make a few suggestions for improvement before a chorus of girls' voices called her attention to Mr. Keeble standing in the doorway, looking her way.

Viscount Whitleaf must have come.

Indeed he had. He was awaiting her in the hallway when she arrived there wearing her warm gray winter cloak and tying the ribbons of her green bonnet beneath her chin. He was wearing his caped greatcoat again and looking very solidly male.

“Miss Osbourne.” He bowed to her, but though all his usual jaunty charm was in the gesture and in his smile, it seemed to Susanna that there was a certain wariness in his eyes too.

“Lord Whitleaf.” She approached him along the hall with an answering wariness.

Last evening stretched between them like a long shadow.

The weather had not changed in the hour or so she had been indoors, Susanna discovered when they stepped out onto the pavement, unless perhaps the air had grown a little warmer. The sun shone down on them from a cloudless sky. There was no discernible wind. She could not have asked more of their last afternoon together.

“Shall we go into Sydney Gardens?” he asked her, offering his arm. “I daresay the park is not at its best in November, but it will be quiet and rural.”

And despite the loveliness of the day, they would probably have it almost to themselves, she thought.

“That would be pleasant,” she said as they headed toward Sydney Place and across the road to the Gardens.

They talked about the summer and their mutual friends and acquaintances in Somerset. They talked about the school and the busy preparations for the Christmas concert, which was always well attended by the parents and other relatives and friends of the girls and teachers and by various dignitaries of Bath. They talked about his sisters and their husbands and children. They talked about the park surrounding them, barren now in the late autumn but still picturesque and peaceful. And they did indeed have it almost to themselves. They passed one rather noisy party of eight, but it was close to the gates, and those people were on their way out.

This was the way a friendship should end, Susanna thought, if it must end at all. They were placid and cheerful and in perfect accord with each other. Gone were the inappropriate and unexpected passion of their last afternoon at Barclay Court and the embarrassment of his attempt at atonement last evening. Today they talked and laughed, enjoying each other's company and the rare gift of a perfect November day.

And this was how she would remember their relationship, she resolved. There would be no more tears, only pleasant memories. For this was how they had been together during the summer with the exception of the first and last days.

“Ah, the maze,” he said as they climbed a steep path toward a straight, high hedge to one side of it. “I knew there was one in here somewhere. Shall we see if we can lose ourselves in it?”

“Perhaps forever?” she said. “What if we can find our way neither to the center nor back out, but are doomed to wander in aimless circles for the rest of our days?”

“It sounds rather like real life, does it not?” he said.

They both laughed.

“But at least,” he added, “we will be lost together.”

“A definite consolation,” she agreed, and they laughed again.

But it was, of course, impossible to remain determinedly cheerful for a whole afternoon. There was a pang of something in the thought that they would not in reality remain lost together within the maze forever. They would find their way in and their way out and complete their walk.

And then the end would come.

He took her hand in his when they entered the maze. Though they both wore gloves, she could feel the heat and the strength of his fingers and remembered how he had laced them with hers while they walked along the village street during the assembly.

They took numerous wrong turns and had to retrace their steps in order to try a different direction. But eventually, after a great deal of conflicting opinions and laughter, they found their way to the center of the maze, where a couple of wooden seats awaited them and offered repose.

“I suppose,” he said after she had seated herself and he took his place beside her, “we ought to have come armed with a mountain of handkerchiefs to drop at strategic intervals along the way. Do you know the way out?”

“No.” She laughed.

“We must be thankful, I suppose,” he said, taking her hand in his again, “that there is no seven-headed monster or its like awaiting us here.”

In the silence at the middle of the maze with Sydney Gardens stretching beyond it, it was very easy to forget the world outside, the inevitable passing of time, the ephemeral nature of the friendship between a man and a woman. It was very easy to believe in the perfection of the moment.

They must have sat for all of five minutes—perhaps ten—without speaking. But sometimes, as they had discovered during the summer, conversation was unnecessary. Communication was made at an altogether deeper level.

Her shoulder, Susanna realized after a while, was leaning against his. Their outer thighs were lightly touching. And somehow—she could not remember its happening—her right glove lay in her lap and his left glove in his, and their bare hands were clasped warmly together.

She heard him draw a deep breath at last and release it slowly.

“I wish I had insisted upon being less protected when I was a boy,” he said. “
Could
I have insisted, I wonder? Did I have that power? I wish I had at least tried to know you better. I knew your father but not you. If I
had
known you, if I
had
insisted upon knowing what was going on in my home and neighborhood even while I was away at school, perhaps I could have been there for you when your father died. Though I do not suppose I could have offered much by way of comfort.”

No,
especially
not him.

“All people must suffer bereavements,” she said, “even children. I managed.”

“Susanna.” He pulled off his other glove with his teeth, transferred her hand from his left hand to his right, and set his left arm about her shoulders. “I spoke with Theo Markham while I was at home. I know about your father.”

She almost broke free of him and jumped to her feet. She remained very still instead. What else had Theodore Markham told him?

“I do not believe it was a mortal sin,” she said quickly. “I do not care what the church has to say on the question or how much it forbids Christian burial to those who take their own life. It would be a very unfair and uncompassionate God who would condemn forever a man who was driven to ending his own life by people who can live on and repent and redeem themselves. If that were what God is like, I would be a determined atheist.”

“You believe that someone else drove him into doing it, then?” he asked.

She waited for him to say more, but he did not.

“Who knows?” she said. “He kept his secrets both before and after his death. It does not matter any longer, does it? He has found his peace. At least, I
hope
he has.”

Though there were times even now she was an adult when she knew she had still not forgiven him for choosing peace over her.

“I am so terribly sorry,” he said. “I liked him. He used to do things with me and Theo. I cannot even imagine how you must have suffered at his loss.”

He could not know, of course, the pang his words had caused her. She had always believed that her father would have preferred a son to a daughter. He had never been actively unkind to her. Indeed, he had always shown her unfailing affection whenever they were together. But he had very rarely offered to do things with her.

The thought flashed suddenly through her mind that perhaps it was an unconscious memory of his neglect that had helped her to say no last evening. She knew very well what it was like not to have the fully committed love of a man she adored—and a man upon whom she was dependent and to whom she owed allegiance and obedience.

“You do not need to imagine it,” she said as he brought her hand up to his lips and then held the back of it against his cheek. “You do not need to bear other people's burdens. Only the person concerned can do that. I bore my own burden, and I am still here. I have survived—and rather well, I believe.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, their clasped hands back on her lap, his other arm still hugging her close to him.

“Why did you run away?” he asked.

“They would not let me see him,” she said, “and they were going to bury him outside the churchyard. They did not know what to do with me. I was a burden to them. I did not belong to them, after all—or to anyone else for that matter. They were going to send me away. I preferred to go without waiting. I preferred to have some control over my own fate.”

“What makes you believe,” he asked her, “that they would have turned you away, that they saw you as a burden?”

“I
heard
Lady Markham say so,” she said. “I did not mishear and I did not misunderstand. A burden is simply that—an unwanted load. And that is what she called me. She said I could not stay there.”

“And yet,” he said, “they searched and searched for you long after you had vanished.”

“Is that what Theodore told you?” she asked him.

“Theo was away at school,” he said, “as I was. It was Lady Markham herself who told me, and Edith. This morning.”

She stiffened and then relaxed against him again, setting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

“Ah,” she said. “You did see them, then. Or they saw you. Did you tell them where I live?”

“No,” he said. “It was not my secret to divulge—if it
is
a secret.”

“I do not wish to see them,” she said.

“Were they not kind to you at all, then?” he asked.

“They were very kind,” she said. “Perhaps too kind. I made the mistake of believing that I belonged to them. Sometimes when Edith would climb onto her mother's lap, I would climb up there too—and she would never turn me away no matter how strange she must have thought it. Edith was as dear to me as any sister could have been. Sometimes children do not realize by how fragile a thread their security hangs. Perhaps it is as well they do not—most of them grow up before the thread can be broken. But I don't want to talk about this any longer. I wanted simply to enjoy the afternoon.”

“I am sorry,” he said with a sigh. “I really am sorry.”