Simply Magic (25 page)

They lapsed into silence for a while and she thought how comforting a man's arm could be about her shoulders and his broad shoulder beneath her cheek and his hand clasping hers. She could get used to such comfort, such dependence. How lovely it would feel to be able to transfer all one's burdens onto a man's capable shoulders and curl into the safety of his protection.

And how easy it was to allow one's mind to slip into fiction and to imagine that there was something desirable about giving up one's autonomy, one's very self.

As if there were such a thing as happily-ever-after and no more effort to make in life.

She turned her face against his shoulder and wished life were as simple as a young girl's dreams—a young girl before the age of twelve and the suicide of her father.

His hand left hers and undid the ribbons beneath her chin. She did not lift her face as he drew her bonnet off and set it down on the seat beside her. And then his hand came beneath her chin, cupping it in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger, and lifting her face until their eyes met.

“Susanna,” he murmured. “Ah, my sweet, strong Susanna.”

She felt anything but strong. Her lips were trembling when his own covered them, warm, parted, wonderfully comforting—and strangely familiar, as if she were somehow coming home. She leaned into him, her one hand spreading over his chest, her other arm twining about his neck to draw him closer. She opened her mouth and felt all the heat and strength of him—all the essence of him—as his tongue came inside.

Passion flared between them, and she moaned at his touch as his hand came beneath her cloak to caress her breasts, to trace the hollow of her waist, the flare of a hip. She kissed him back with a sort of wild abandon, and heat seared them both.

But it was not an entirely mindless embrace. They were at the center of a maze in the middle of a probably deserted park. But it was, nevertheless, possible that they could be interrupted at any moment. And there was more than just that. They had behaved indiscreetly and unwisely at Barclay Court, and they had both suffered as a result.

When she drew back her head, touched her forehead to his, and closed her eyes, he withdrew his hand from inside her cloak and made no attempt to continue the embrace.

“Susanna,” he said after a few moments, “I wish you would reconsider—”

But she set two fingers against his lips and lifted her forehead away from his to look into his eyes. They gazed back into her own, darkly violet in the sunlight. He did not attempt to finish what he had begun to say.

“Don't look at me like that,” she whispered.

“Like what?” He took her by the wrist and moved her hand away from his mouth.

“With pity and compassion in your eyes.” She was suddenly and inexplicably angry as she drew free of him and jumped to her feet. “You are forever wanting to
give,
to
comfort,
to
protect
. Do you never want to
take,
to
demand,
to assert your own wishes? I do not
need
your pity.”

And what on
earth
was she talking about? She turned her back on him, took a few steps away to the other side of the clearing at the center of the maze.

His silence was as accusing as words. She knew she had hurt him, but she was powerless now to unsay the words.

“Should I take you again here, then, to slake my desire—but by force this time?” he asked her, his voice horribly quiet—why did he not rage at her? “Should I demand that you marry me so that my honor can be restored? Should I assert myself as a man and a wealthy, titled man at that and take whatever my heart desires from all who stand in my way? Especially women? Is that what you want of me, Susanna? I did not understand. I am sorry—I cannot be such a man.”

“Oh, Peter.” She turned to look at him. He was still sitting on the seat, his shoulders slightly slumped, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. “I did not mean it that way.”

“What
did
you mean, then?” he asked.

She opened her mouth and drew breath and then could not think of anything to say. She did not know quite what she had meant. She had told him last night that he needed to learn to like himself. That had not been quite it either. And she had once told him that he needed a dragon to slay. She was not even sure what she had meant by that.

She wanted him to…

To move heaven and earth.

For her. For himself.

She wanted him to
love
her.

How foolish! As if that would make any difference to anything.

“You cannot answer, can you?” he said. “Because you
did
mean what you said. I think perhaps I
do
like myself well enough. It is you who do not.”

But he held up a staying hand and smiled crookedly as she opened her mouth and drew breath to speak again.

“Enough!” he said. “I think you must be a very good teacher indeed, Susanna Osbourne. I have never done as much soul-searching as I have since I met you. I used to think I was a pretty cheerful, uncomplicated fellow. Now I feel rather as if I had been taken apart at the seams and stitched together again with some of my stuffing left out.”

Despite herself her mouth quirked at the corners and drew up into a smile.

“Then I am definitely not a good teacher,” she said. “But you are a good man, Peter. You
are
. It is just that…”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I am not only a woman,” she said. “I am a
person
. All women are persons. If we are weak and dependent upon men, it is because we have allowed men to mold us into those images. Perhaps it makes men feel good and strong to see us that way. And perhaps most women are happy to be seen thus. Perhaps society works reasonably well because both men and women are happy with the roles our society has given them to play. But I was thrown out on my own early in life. I will never say it was a good thing that happened to me, but I
am
grateful that circumstances have forced me to live outside the mold. I would rather be a complete person than just a woman even if I must be alone as a result.”

“You do not need to be alone,” he said.

“No.” She smiled at him. “You would marry me and support and protect me for the rest of my life. And so we move full circle. I am sorry, Peter. I did not mean to deliver such a pompous speech. I did not even know I believed those things until I heard them come out of my mouth. But I
do
believe them.”

“It is as I thought, then,” he said, getting to his feet and handing her her bonnet. “You are happier without me. It is a humbling reality.”

And she could not now contradict him, could she?

She took her bonnet and busied herself with putting it back on and tying the ribbons beneath her chin.

“Will you do one thing for me?” she asked him.

“What?” he asked her.

She looked into his eyes.

“When you go home to Sidley Park for Christmas,” she said, “will you
stay
there? Make it your home and your life?” She was appalled suddenly by her presumption.

“And marry Miss Flynn-Posy too?” His smile was crooked.

“If you decide that you
wish
to marry her, yes,” she said. “Will you
talk
to your mother, Peter?
Really
talk?”

“Throw my weight around? Lay down the law?” he said. “Leave misery in my wake?”

“Tell her who you are,” she said. “Perhaps she has been so intent upon loving you all your life that really she does not know you at all. Perhaps—
probably
—she does not know your dreams.”

She felt horribly embarrassed when he did not immediately reply. How
dared
she interfere in his life this way? Even when guiding and advising the girls at school about their various problems and about their futures, she was careful never to be as dogmatic as she had just been.

“I am sorry,” she said, “I have no right—”

“And will
you
do one last thing for
me
?” he asked her.

Reality smote her like a fist to the stomach.
One last thing.
This time tomorrow he would be long gone. He would be only a memory and not even the purely happy one she had persuaded herself earlier in the afternoon he would be. The last several minutes had destroyed that possibility. She looked at him in inquiry.

“Will you allow me to take you to meet Lady Markham and Edith?” he asked her.

“Now?”
she said.

“Why not?” he asked her. “Lawrence Morley, Edith's husband, has taken lodgings on Laura Place, only a stone's throw away. I promised to call there before leaving Bath. And I promised Edith that I would ask you if she may call on you or if you will call on her.”

She shook her head.

“Do consider,” he said. “I do not know if it is my place to tell you this, but there really were letters, you know—to Lord Markham and to you.”

There was a coldness about her head and in her nostrils.

“Letters?” Somehow no sound came out with the word.

“From your father.” He took one step closer and possessed himself of both her hands, which he held very tightly. “I have no idea if they were kept, Susanna, or what their contents were. But ought you not at least to see Lady Markham?”

There had been letters—one of them for her.

Her father had written her a letter!

Disclosing
what
? What had the letter to Lord Markham disclosed?

But as quickly as shock had come, panic followed on its heels.

“It would be as well if they have been destroyed,” she said, pulling her hands free again and going back to the seat to rescue her gloves. “There is no point in trying to go back after all these years to rake up an old unhappiness that drove a man to his death.” She fumbled to pull on the gloves. “It can only cause more unhappiness for the living.”

“Have you ever
not
been back there, Susanna?” he asked.

He did not explain his meaning. He did not have to. Of course she had never let go of the past. How could she? Those things had happened and her suffering had been dreadful. The past was a part of her. But she had moved beyond it. She lived a life that was secure and meaningful and happy when compared to the lives of many thousands of other people. Nothing could be served by going back. It was too late.

“William Osbourne wanted to be heard,” he said. “He had something to say.”

“Then he should have
said
it,” she said, whirling about to face him, “to Lord Markham and to me. He said precious little to me in twelve years. He would not even talk about my mother, who was a yawning emptiness in my life. He might have spoken to me instead of killing himself. He might have loved me instead of seeking the comfort of death.”

“You loved him,” he said softly.

“
Of course
I loved him.”

“Then forgive him,” he said.

“Why?” She was swiping angrily at the tears that were spilling from her eyes, her back toward him.

“It is what love does,” he said.

She laughed—a shaky, pathetic sound.

“All the time,” he said. “
All
the time.”

If he just knew. If he just
knew
.

“Very well.” She spun around to face him. “Let us go, then. Take me to them. Let us ask about the letters—and their contents. But know in advance, Lord Whitleaf, that it may be a Pandora's box that will be opened, that once it is open it will be impossible to close it again.”

“But this does not concern
me,
” he said. “I believe it is something you need to do for yourself. The letters may not even still exist, Susanna, and yours may never have been opened before it was destroyed. It is just that I think you ought to meet Lady Markham and Edith again. You need to give them a chance—the chance you believe your father denied you.”

She stared at him and then nodded curtly.

“Let us go, then,” she said.

“
If
we can find our way out of this maze,” he said, his eyes suddenly softening into a smile.

“Now I really,
really
wish we could be lost here forever,” she told him, smiling ruefully despite herself.

“Me too,” he agreed. “We should have gone and built a cabin on the top of Mount Snowdon when we had a chance, Susanna.”

He offered her his arm and she took it.

19

It seemed to Peter as they approached Laura Place, the diamond
-shaped street at the bridge end of Great Pulteney Street, that this was the damnedest time to discover that he was not in love with Susanna Osbourne after all.

He
loved
her instead.

And there was a world of difference between the two types of love.

He loved her, yet much of the time she disliked him and even despised him.

If there
was
a God, then that deity must be a joker indeed. At the risk of appearing vain in his own eyes, he would have to say that almost every other young lady he had ever met—and he had met a large number just in the five years since reaching his majority—both liked and admired him and would even be prepared to love him if he set himself to wooing them.

He was going to leave Bath early tomorrow morning, and nothing was going to stop him this time. He could hardly wait to be on his way, in fact. If he had not committed himself to this afternoon call, he would start his journey now, this afternoon.

They had walked all the way from Sydney Gardens in silence.

“This is the house,” he said at last after keeping his eyes on the numbers. And he stepped up to the door and rapped the knocker against it.

He would have taken Susanna's arm again, knowing how nervous she must be feeling, how reluctant she was to make this call, but he did not do so. His mother and his sisters had overprotected him, and it seemed that without realizing it he had learned to do the same with other people—especially the woman he loved. She did not want his support or protection. She did not need them either, dash it.

The ladies had just returned from shopping, the manservant who opened the door informed them. He would see if they were receiving visitors. He glanced at the card Peter handed him and raised his eyebrows before turning away.

Two minutes later, they were being ushered into a small drawing room abovestairs, and Edith was introducing a thin, fair-haired, bespectacled young man to Peter as Lawrence Morley, her husband. Then she turned to Susanna, two spots of color high in her cheeks.

“You
are
Susanna,” she said. “Oh, of course you are. I could not mistake that hair or those eyes anywhere. You have grown up but really you have not changed at all. I was convinced it
was
you in the Abbey with Peter last evening.” She stretched out both her hands. “Oh, just
look
at you. Lawrence, dearest, this is the Susanna Osbourne we were telling you about at breakfast.”

Susanna hesitated before placing her hands in Edith's, but then Edith pulled her into a tight hug.

Lady Markham, meanwhile, was standing quietly farther back in the room. She had nodded to Peter, but now her eyes were fixed upon Susanna.

“All these years,” she said when Edith stepped back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “I have feared that you were dead, Susanna.”

“No,” Susanna said, “I did not die.”

“Miss Osbourne, Lord Whitleaf,” Mr. Morley said, “do come and have a seat closer to the fire. You must have walked here—I have not heard a carriage in the street.”

“We have been strolling in Sydney Gardens,” Peter explained as they all sat. “It is a beautiful day.”

“For November, yes,” Morley agreed, “though it is a little nippy even so, I daresay. You were dressed warmly, I trust, Miss Osbourne? You left your outdoor garments downstairs?”

“I did, sir.” She smiled. “My cloak and gloves are warm enough for even the coldest day.”

“You were wise to wear them today, then,” he said. “Edith sees sunshine and wants to step outside even before the servants have ascertained that it is warm enough and that no strong wind is blowing and no dark clouds are looming. I daresay the Abbey was drafty last evening, but she
would
insist upon going to the concert. I was relieved that my mama-in-law went with her to insist that she keep her cloak about her shoulders. Edith is recovering from a recent confinement, as you may know.”

“No, I did not,” Susanna said, looking at Edith. “How lovely for you.”

“We have a son,” Edith said with a smile. “He is quite adorable, is he not, dearest? He looks like his papa.”

Polite chatter followed while a tea tray was carried in and Lady Markham poured and handed around the cups and saucers and offered them all a slice of fruitcake.

“Susanna,” Edith said at last, “do you
live
in Bath?
Where
is your house?”

“I teach and live at Miss Martin's School for Girls on Daniel Street,” Susanna said. “I teach writing and penmanship and games among other things.”

“Games?” Morley said. “I hope nothing too strenuous, Miss Osbourne. Vigorous exercise is unhealthy for young ladies, I have heard, and I readily believe it. I daresay they would be better employed with a needle or a paintbrush. Vigorous games are excluded from most academies for young lades, and rightly so.”

“You
teach,
” Lady Markham said before Susanna could reply—and while Peter was still entertaining amused memories of her rowing and flushed and laughing in the boat races at Barclay Court. “However did that come about, Susanna?”

“I went to London,” she explained, “and registered at an employment agency. But I was fortunate enough to be singled out and sent as a charity pupil to Miss Martin's school here. I was a pupil until I was eighteen, and then I was offered a position as junior teacher.”

“You went to London,” Lady Markham said. “But how did you get there, Susanna? You were a
child
. And we checked all the stagecoach stops for miles in every direction.”

“I went into my father's room,” Susanna said. “There was some money there in a box on his dressing table, and I took it, as I supposed it was mine. There was a valise too, big enough to hold most of my things but small enough for me to carry. I walked and begged rides for most of the way. There was not enough money to be squandered on transportation.”

“It is to be hoped, Miss Osbourne,” Morley said, “that you did not sit on hay, as so many travelers do when they do not ride in carriages or on the stagecoach. Hay is often damp even when it feels dry.”

“I do not believe I ever did sit on hay, sir,” she said.

“Oh, Susanna,” Lady Markham said, setting her cup and saucer down on her empty plate, “
why
did you leave as you did, without a word to anyone? Of course, you were dreadfully upset, poor child, but I fully expected that you would turn to us for comfort. We were almost like a family to you—or so I thought.”

Peter noticed that Susanna had taken only one bite out of her piece of cake. He noticed too that her cheeks were paler than usual despite all the fresh air she had been out in for the last couple of hours.

“As you just observed, ma'am,” she said, “I
was
very upset and I
was
just a child. Who knows why I fled as I did? No one would let me see my father and so I could not quite believe that he really was dead. And then I heard that he was not going to be allowed burial inside the churchyard and I knew that he
was
dead. I—”

“The church must be firm on such matters of principle,” Morley said, “regrettable as—”

“Dearest,” Edith said, interrupting, “I am very much afraid that Jamie might have awoken and will be wanting one of us even though Nurse is with him.”

He jumped to his feet. “I shall go to him immediately,” he said, “if you will excuse me, Miss Osbourne, Lord Whitleaf, Mama-in-law. But I am sure you all
will
excuse the natural anxieties of a new father.”

“Thank you, Lawrence,” Edith said. “You are very good.”

Had the circumstances been different, Peter would doubtless have been vastly diverted by the fussy but seemingly good-hearted Morley and by the relationship between him and Edith, who looked as if she might be genuinely fond of him. But Peter was feeling Susanna's distress—and that of his lifelong neighbors too.

“Markham would not let you—or even me—see your papa,” Lady Markham said after Morley had closed the door behind him, “because…well…”

“I understand,” Susanna said. “He shot himself in the head. But he was all I had in the world, and I was not allowed to go near him. And then there was to be the indignity of his funeral. I suppose I wanted to put as much distance between all of it and myself as I possibly could.”

“You did not even say good-bye to
me,
” Edith said. “First there was all the dreadful upset in the house and I was not allowed to leave my room even to go as far as the nursery. And then, when I sent Nurse to fetch you, she could not find you. And then
nobody
could find you. Oh, I
am
sorry.” She leaned back in her chair. “Your suffering was obviously many, many times worse than mine. And you were only twelve. You appeared very grown-up to my eleven-year-old eyes, but you were incapable of making any mature decisions. I just wish—ah, never mind. I am
so
happy to see you again and to know that life has worked out well for you. You are actually a
teacher
in a girls' school. I am quite sure you must be a
good
teacher.”

Incredibly, the conversation turned to that subject as they debated the advantages and disadvantages of sending girls to school rather than having them educated at home.

They were not going to probe any more deeply into Susanna's reasons for running away, Peter thought, and she was not going to elaborate. And they were not going to mention the letters William Osbourne had left behind—and she was not going to ask.

It seemed strange to him that she did not want to know more about them, that she was not frantic to discover what her father had had to say in the last hour or so of his life, when he had known he was about to end it. In Sydney Gardens, after the first moment when she had looked as if she were about to faint, she had spoken of Pandora's box and appeared quite reluctant to pursue the matter.

In some ways perhaps it was understandable. All these years she had believed that her father died without leaving any clue to his motive or feelings, without saying good-bye to her or making provision for her. Now she knew that he had left something behind. But there was certainly something to be said for the old proverb about letting sleeping dogs lie, especially when eleven years had passed.

The moment for any meaningful truth to be spoken seemed almost to have passed now too. They had all settled, it seemed, into the polite and amiable conversation typical of any afternoon call.

He supposed he ought not to interfere further. He had half bullied Susanna into coming here. He had kept his promise to Edith. All three ladies would perhaps now be satisfied, Lady Markham and Edith in knowing that she was alive and well and happily settled, Susanna in knowing that they had not hated her or abandoned her without an effort to find her. If her running away and Lady Markham's overheard words had not been quite satisfactorily explained, well, perhaps they were all content never to dig deeper.

He ought not to interfere. None of this was any of his business.

He interfered nevertheless.

“I was telling Miss Osbourne a short while ago, ma'am,” he said into a momentary lull in the conversation, “about the letters discovered inside a ledger in Mr. Osbourne's desk after his death.”

Three pairs of eyes turned upon him in something that looked like reproach. Then Susanna closed hers briefly.

“Yes,” Lady Markham said. “There were two, one addressed to Markham and one to Susanna.”

“What did he say?” Susanna asked, her voice terribly strained. “Did he explain why he did it?”

“I believe he did,” Lady Markham said while Edith set down her plate. “It was addressed to Lord Markham, you must understand, Susanna, not to me. I—
we
—will always remember your father with respect and even affection. He was a good and efficient secretary.”

“But you did see the letter?” Susanna asked.

“Yes,” Lady Markham admitted, “I believe I did.”

“What did it say?” Susanna asked. “Please tell me.”

Something struck Peter suddenly and he got to his feet.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would all prefer it if I were not here since this has nothing whatsoever to do with me, has it? Shall I leave the room? May I wait for Miss Osbourne—”

But Lady Markham had raised one staying hand and he sat again.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding weary. “There is no need to go. There was something in your father's past, Susanna, something that had remained hidden for years but had finally come to light. Things were becoming ugly for him. He thought shame would be brought down upon you and himself and upon Markham for having employed him and housed him. He thought, I suppose, that he would be dismissed in disgrace and would have no further means of support for himself and a young daughter. He could see no other way out but to do what he did. That is all I remember. It was very tragic, but nothing can be done now to change the unfortunate outcome.”

It all seemed a little thin and evasive to Peter.
I believe I did. That is all I remember
. Would not every word of a suicide note be seared on the brain of anyone who had read it—especially when the man had lived and worked and shot himself in one's own home?

“And
my
letter?” Susanna asked softly.

“To my knowledge it was not opened,” Lady Markham said.

“Was it destroyed?” Susanna asked.

“I do not know.” Lady Markham blinked rapidly. “I cannot imagine Markham burning it, but I do not know.”

“Perhaps Theo knows, Mama,” Edith suggested. “Oh, surely it is still in existence.”

“It is probably as well if it is not,” Susanna said. She got to her feet, and Peter rose too. “If my father did anything so very wrong before I was born, it seems to me that he atoned for it with a life of hard work and loyal service to Sir Charles. I do not want to know what it was he did. I do not want to know who…Oh, it does not matter. I would rather leave him in peace. I do thank you both for receiving me and for the tea, but I must go now. I have been away from the school for a whole afternoon and must not neglect my duties any longer.”