Simply Magic (27 page)

“Is it perhaps
necessary
that you go back?” Claudia asked, breaking the silence. “Now that the past has been raked up again, whether you wished it to be or not, ought you perhaps to put it properly to rest this time?”

Susanna lifted her eyes to gaze into the dying embers of the fire.

“There were letters,” she said. “I did not tell you that after my visit to Laura Place, did I? My father wrote two before he died—one to Sir Charles Markham and one to me. They are both still in a safe at Fincham. Theodore asked Lady Markham to inform me that he will send me mine if I wish, but that he strongly recommends that I go to Fincham to see both letters and to speak with him.”

“Oh, Susanna!” Claudia exclaimed. “What a shock it must have been for you—but what a delightful one—to discover that your father wrote to you after all before taking his life. And how exciting to find out today that the letter still exists! Do you not ache to read it? I will send you there tomorrow if you wish so that you will not have to wait one day longer than necessary.”

“I do not want to see it,” Susanna said.

Claudia stared at her and raised her eyebrows.

“I
know
why he killed himself,” Susanna said, “and I cannot bear to read what he thought suitable for a twelve-year-old's eyes. He loved Viscountess Whitleaf, Claudia, but she was cruel to him and broke his heart. Lady Markham told me a few weeks ago that there was something shameful in his past that was about to expose him to disgrace and dismissal and poverty, but I do not believe it. I
know
the truth. Viscountess Whitleaf killed my father as surely as if she had pulled the trigger herself. Or it could be said that his own weakness in being unable to live on with a broken heart was what killed him.”

There. She had never said it aloud before. She had tried not even to think it—that one person could wield such emotional power over another, and that the other could not find the strength of character or will to fight back. She had
seen
them together. She had
heard
them. She
knew
. She had always known.

Her father had left her, abandoned her forever, because he had not been able to live without the love of a cruel woman who did not care the snap of two fingers for him—and those had been the viscountess's own words.

It was no wonder Susanna had cringed from the name
Whitleaf
on that country lane near Barclay Court during the summer.

“Oh, Susanna,” Claudia said, “Viscountess
Whitleaf
of all people? You poor dear.”

“You can see now why I want nothing to do with any of it,” Susanna said. “Or with
him
.”

Claudia sighed. “Why do we persist in believing that we can control our lives provided we work hard and live decently and mind our own business?” she said. “You really do not deserve any of this now. You did not deserve any of it when you were twelve either. But here you are stuck with it.”

“No, I am not,” Susanna said. “It is all history. The present is what matters. And I have my life and my friends here in the present and am quite happy, Claudia. I
am
.”

“Except,” Claudia said, “that the sunshine has gone out of you, Susanna.”

They stared at each other.

“Perhaps no one else has even noticed,” Claudia continued. “You are as energetic and as cheerful and as busy as ever. You smile and laugh as much as you ever did. But I have known you a long time, and I love you as if you were my younger sister—and
I
know that the sun has stopped shining in your life.”

Susanna closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again.

“All I need is time,” she said. “I
will
prove that a broken heart can mend, Claudia, and that life is always worth living. I need a little more time, that is all.”

It was pointless, she supposed, to deny to Claudia—or herself—that her heart
was
broken. Sometimes she found herself wondering if she would find the strength to refuse that marriage offer if it were made now. It was a good thing there was no danger of any such thing happening. All other considerations aside—and there were many of them—she could never marry the son of Viscountess Whitleaf.

“I am about to offer some unwanted advice,” Claudia said, “something schoolteachers excel at, alas. Accept your invitation. Go to Fincham Manor for Christmas. Hear what Sir Theodore Markham has to say. Read your letter—and the other one too if he renews his offer to show it to you. Know the truth in your father's own words—know it from Sir Theodore's point of view. You already believe you know the worst, and so nothing can come as a terrible shock to you. See the place you fled eleven years ago and lay some ghosts to rest. As for Viscount Whitleaf and his mother—see them too if you will and if the opportunity presents itself, or avoid seeing them if you so choose. But deal with it all, Susanna. Deal with it and move on so that the sun can shine in you again.”

“I feel,” Susanna said, “as if a wound had been ripped open during the summer and then other wounds inflicted on top of it. A few times since then it has seemed that they have filmed over only to be torn open again. They have been healing now, Claudia. They really have. I do not want…I cannot bear…”

“But your letter this morning exposed the wound again,” Claudia pointed out. “For how long will it fester, Susanna, now that you know your father spoke to you before he died—but you refuse to listen? And when will the hurt be renewed yet again if you ignore it now?”

“I could have Theodore send the letter here,” Susanna said.

“You could, yes,” Claudia agreed. It seemed that she would say more, but she closed her mouth.

“It is late,” Susanna said, glancing at the clock on the mantel, “and I am
so
weary. You must be too.”

“I am indeed,” Claudia said, getting to her feet. “And now I suspect I have doomed you to a sleepless night, Susanna. But I believe you would have had one anyway after receiving that letter. It is strange, is it not, how one event can be the innocent cause of another quite unrelated to it? We were both elated when Anne arrived back from Wales in August just in time for you to go to Barclay Court with Frances and the earl. If she had been even one day later, none of all this would have happened. But then, perhaps it would have found a way to happen anyway. Perhaps it is impossible to avoid our own fate. I
must
be tired. I am talking nonsense.”

Susanna left the room after saying good night, and climbed the stairs to her own room. She was in bed a few minutes later, huddled beneath the bedcovers against the chill of the night. But sleep did indeed evade her for a long time.

If
only
Anne had not come home until a day later. If
only
the Duchess of Bewcastle and Viscountess Ravensberg had not planned a wedding breakfast for Anne and Mr. Butler here in Bath. If
only
she had not gone to Bath Abbey for that evening concert and so seen Lady Markham and Edith again. If
only
she had never known that her father had written her a letter.

And if only Claudia had agreed with her decision to write back to Theodore tomorrow refusing his invitation and even declining his offer to send her father's letter.

Why
did she not want to read that letter? The question woke her up fully again just when she was starting to feel drowsy.

Did she want to turn her back on her father as he had turned his on her? Was it a type of revenge for the suffering he had caused her? Did she want to hurt him even though he was not alive to feel the pain?

Papa,
she thought, turning her face into her pillow.

She had not even thought of him by that name for years and years.

And finally, just before she fell asleep at last, she realized that in truth she had no choice. Having Theodore send the letter here might satisfy an empty craving within her, though she doubted even that. But there were other things to know, places to see, people to talk with.

She had to go back.

She had to hear it all, see it all, read it all.

Perhaps it could all be done without her ever having to set eyes upon Viscount Whitleaf. She had seen him only once during her childhood, after all.

And if she
did
by some chance see him again, well then…But her mind could not cope with that possibility. One thing at a time.

Tonight it was enough to know that she was going to go back. Enough to fill her with dread.

And yet, the decision made, she slept.

21

Susanna arrived at Fincham Manor very late in the afternoon
three days before Christmas, having traveled post. She had left Bath early on the morning following the Christmas concert and all the other busy activities that came with the end of term. She was tired even before she started the journey. She was exhausted by the time it ended.

The fact that she had dreaded coming did not help, of course.

She had wondered how it would feel to step into the house again after all these years. When she had left it eleven years ago, her father had just killed himself and she had just heard Lady Markham describe her as a burden. She had been running away.

But though it all looked startlingly familiar, it also seemed like a place she must have visited during another lifetime. She felt no great emotional connection with it.

This time, of course, she was staying in a guest chamber in the main part of the house rather than in the pretty little attic room next to her father's. She was a guest of the family.

Edith and Mr. Morley had already arrived for Christmas, and a few other guests were expected. The whole family gave Susanna a warm welcome—Theodore even shook her hand warmly after she had curtsied to him, and then held it in both his own while he assured her that she had grown into a rare beauty. He had grown into a great bear of a man himself, with wild, unruly dark hair and a genial face. She had worshipped him as a child and still instinctively liked him.

“You will want to freshen up and change for dinner, Susanna,” he said. “I
may
still call you Susanna?”

“Only if I may still call you Theodore,” she said.

He laughed heartily.

By the time dinner was at an end and she had drunk a cup of tea in the drawing room with Lady Markham and Edith while the two gentlemen drank their port in the dining room, Susanna was finding it hard to keep her eyes open.

“Susanna is very weary,” Lady Markham said when the gentlemen arrived in the room. “I do think that any business you planned to discuss with her tonight, Theodore, must wait until the morning.”

Her letter. It was in this very house—the words her father had written to her just before he died. She had come specifically to read it. And now that she was here she was almost sick with the longing to see it, to hold it, to read it. But not tonight. She needed to be wide awake and strong.

“I was going to suggest the very same thing, Mama,” Theodore said. “Will that suit you, Susanna? Would you like to retire for the night now?”

“Yes, please,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, Theodore. And thank you for inviting me here.”

“We will talk tomorrow, then,” he said. “And later tomorrow our other guests should be arriving.”

Lady Markham walked with Susanna up to her room.

“I am very happy you came,” she said. “I have always felt that the story of eleven years ago was never properly ended. I have felt it even more since seeing you in Bath. Now perhaps we can all end the story, Susanna, and remain friends after you return to your school. Good night. Do have a good sleep.”

And Susanna did—have a good sleep, that was. She remembered nothing between setting her head on her pillow and waking to the sounds of a maid lighting a fire in the small fireplace in her room. There was a cup of steaming chocolate on the table beside her bed.

What luxury!

But as she dressed a short while later, her teeth chattered, not so much from cold as from sick apprehension of what the morning held in store.

First, though, she had to sit through breakfast and smile and make light conversation and assure Edith—quite truthfully—that she would indeed like to go up to the nursery with her to see Jamie.

“But not yet, Ede,” Theodore said, getting to his feet at the end of what had seemed an interminable meal. “Susanna and I have business first. I'll fetch your letter, Susanna, and you may read it wherever you wish—in your room or in the drawing room, which is always empty at this time of day. Or in the library if you prefer.”

But suddenly she could not wait even long enough for him to bring it to her. She got to her feet too.

“I will come with you if I may,” she said.

“Certainly,” he said, and she followed him from the room.

But he hesitated outside a certain room, his hand on the knob, and Susanna instantly knew why. It was the study that had been her father's. It was where he had shot himself.

“I'll go in and get it,” he said, smiling kindly at her. “It will just take a minute.”

“Please,” Susanna said, touching his arm, “may I come in too?”

He heaved an audible sigh and opened the door to allow her to precede him inside.

It was a disturbingly familiar room even though she had not come in here many times as a girl. Her father had used to leave the door ajar most days, however, and she had often stood outside, smelling leather and ink and listening to his deep, pleasant voice if there was someone in there with him. Often it had been Theodore, and she had listened to them talk about horses and racing or about fishing, Theodore's voice eager, her father's indulgent. She had always longed to push the door open and go in to join them. Perhaps her father would not have turned her away. Perhaps he would even have welcomed her and let her climb onto his knee. Perhaps—and this was a novel thought—he had felt as neglected by her as she had by him. Perhaps he had thought that as a girl she
preferred
to spend all her days with Edith.

She was standing at the desk, she realized, running her hand over the leather-edged blotter while Theodore watched her silently. She looked up at him and half smiled.

“It is strange revisiting a portion of one's life one had thought long gone,” she said.

“It is cold in here,” Theodore said after regarding her for a few moments. “I will find the letter and you can go somewhere warm to read it.”

“Thank you,” she said. She supposed it
was
cold in here since there was no fire in the hearth and she could hear the wind rattling the windows, beyond which the sky was a leaden gray. But even if she had not been wearing a winter dress and the soft wool shawl Claudia had given her as an early Christmas gift, she did not believe she would really have felt it this morning. “But I want to read the letter here. May I, please, Theodore?”

This was where the letter must have been written, she realized—on this very desk. Just before…

Theodore did not argue. He stooped down on his haunches to light the fire, and then he stepped up to the safe and opened it. He turned with a folded, sealed sheet of paper in his hand. Susanna could see that it was somewhat yellowed about the edges.

“I will leave you for a while, then,” he said, “and then come back to answer any questions you may have—
if
I can answer them, that is. I was away at school at the time, and I was not told much. But I have read my father's letter, and I have spoken with my mother.”

“Thank you,” she said, but as he handed her the letter, she realized that in fact there were two. Her hand closed about them, and she shut her eyes until she heard the quiet click of the door as he left.

She seated herself carefully behind the desk and looked down at the papers in her hand.

Her own letter was on top. The words
Miss Susanna Osbourne
were written in the firm, sloping, elegant hand that she recognized instantly as her father's. His hand had not even shaken at the end, she thought as she set the other letter down on the desk, but her own was shaking as she held it. She slid her thumb beneath the seal and broke it before opening out the sheet.

“My dearest Susanna,” she read, “you will feel that I have abandoned you, that I did not love you enough to live for you. When you are older, perhaps you will understand that this is not true. My life, if I were to live on, would suddenly change quite drastically, and therefore so would yours. Perhaps I would face that change if I were alone as I faced another when I was much younger. Who knows? But I cannot subject you to it. I have been accused of two dreadful crimes, one of which I committed, one of which I did not. But my innocence in the second case does not matter. It will not be believed in light of the first.

“I am ruined, as perhaps I deserve to be. Your mother has already paid the ultimate price. It is time I did too. And I do it—or so I tell myself, trying to give my life some touch of nobility at the end—so that you may live. You have family, Susanna—mine and your mother's. And either one will be happy enough to take you in once I am gone. They would have taken you at your birth, but I was too selfish to give you up. You were all I had left. I have given instructions to Sir Charles, and you will be united with your family. They will be good to you—they are good people. They will love you. You will have a secure, happy girlhood with them and a bright future. I promise you this though life will probably seem very bleak to you now as you read. I will take my leave of you, then, my dearest child. Believe that I do love you and always have. Papa.”

Susanna rubbed the side of her thumb over that final word.
Papa.
Had she really called him that? But of course she had. It was only afterward that she had changed his name to
my father
.

I do it so that you may live.

Must she bear that burden too?

Perhaps I would face that change if I were alone.

There was no mention of Viscountess Whitleaf or of choosing death rather than life without the woman he loved. But would a father admit such a thing to his twelve-year-old child anyway?

He
had
loved the viscountess. She had seen them together one afternoon just before his death. She had been hiding under a hedgerow close to the road that led from Fincham to the village, about to come out because it had become obvious to her that Edith must have tired of the game when she could not find Susanna and had gone home to wait for her to put in an appearance. But then along had come Susanna's father, walking beside Lady Whitleaf's horse until they both stopped a mere stone's throw away. Susanna had stayed where she was, too embarrassed to be seen crawling out of a hedgerow. She had even been able to see them, though she had hoped they would not see her.

“Do you think I
care
?” Lady Whitleaf had said, her voice filled with scorn as she tossed her head so that the pink feathered plume in her riding hat nodded against her ear. “I do not care the snap of my fingers for you and never have.”

It had struck Susanna that she was very beautiful.

“I am sorry,” her father had said, possessing himself of her hand and carrying it to his lips. “I truly am sorry.”

“You will be very sorry indeed for having set your sights so high,” she had said, snatching back her hand. “And for having molested me.”

“Molested?”
He had taken a step back. “I am sorry if you see my actions that way.”

“I do.” She had looked down on him as if he were a worm beneath her feet. “That I should have deigned to take even a moment's notice of a mere government secretary! I hope your heart
is
broken. It deserves to be. I hope it drives you to your death.”

And she had driven her spurs into the horse's side and gone cantering off down the lane.

While Susanna had sat paralyzed in her hiding place, biting her knee through the cotton fabric of her dress, she had watched her father pass a hand wearily over his face before turning and trudging off back in the direction of the house.

Her mind returned to the present and the letter in her hand. She could hear the fire crackling to life in the fireplace. She could even feel a thread of warmth from its direction.

She had
family
—or had had eleven years ago, on both her mother's and father's side. They would have taken her in—but not her father. What had he done to offend them so?

I have been accused of two dreadful crimes, one of which I committed…

Her mother had paid the ultimate price, and now it was his turn.

The ultimate price for what? What dreadful crime had called for the deaths of two people?

Her father had killed himself for her sake. Without her he might have struggled on. He had kept her after her birth even though he might have sent her to live with his family or her mother's. He had been too selfish to give her up.

Susanna lowered her forehead to the desk to rest on the open letter.

So many thoughts and emotions to churn around in one body and mind!

But only one thought came at her with any real clarity—or rather the memory of three words written on the paper beneath her.

…my dearest child.

Theodore was going to come back, she thought suddenly, and sat up again. Her father's letter had raised as many questions as it had answered. Perhaps there were some answers…

She reached her hand toward the other letter, whose seal, she could see, was already broken. But did she want to know the secrets of the man who had been her father? How could she
not
want to know, though, after reading her own letter? Was it really not as she had thought all these years? Was
one
of the impediments to her marrying Peter—though there were a thousand others—to be removed?

She drew Sir Charles's letter toward her and opened it. Her eyes went straight to the body of the letter, closely written and in just as steady a hand as her own letter.

“You listened kindly to me a few days ago,” she read, “when I told you my sordid, long-held secrets before the Viscountess Whitleaf could do it for me. I have never had a high opinion of blackmailers or of those who allow themselves to become their victims. You were even gracious enough to refuse to accept my resignation—at least until we saw how much the lady talked and what the gravity of the resulting scandal would be.

“The situation has become far graver, however. Now that her original threat to come to you with my story has been thwarted, she plans to go to the world with another story of how I have molested and even ravished her. It would be a silly lie, perhaps, if not for two facts that will surely make her story generally believed. One is the truth of the other story she will now undoubtedly share with the world. The other is the mild gossip that arose around the lady and myself in London last year—and the truth of the fact that yes, for a while we
were
lovers. My mistake—one of too many to count in my life—was to try ending our liaison myself instead of waiting until such time as she chose to end it herself.