Simply Magic

16

Susanna was in the dining hall eating luncheon. The seat beside her at the head table-the teachers’ table-was empty. Claudia was probably eating in her office with Miss Thompson, who had apparently arrived to look over the school with a view to teaching here.

It would be good to have another resident teacher, Susanna thought, and one whom Claudia had instinctively liked at their first meeting.

Where was he now, she wondered, as she had wondered at frequent intervals all morning while she was teaching. How many miles from Bath? How many miles from wherever he was going?

She made an attempt to bring her attention back to the conversation of the other teachers.

But Mr. Keeble, whose boots were squeaking as they always seemed to have done ever since Susanna had known him as if he must have them specially made with just that quality, had entered the room and was making his way toward the head table. Susanna looked inquiringly at him.

“Miss Martin wishes to see you in her office as soon as you have finished eating, Miss Osbourne,” he said.

The dessert had not yet been served. But she did not need dessert. She did not seem to have much appetite today. She excused herself, got to her feet, and made her way to the office. Was Miss Thompson still here? she wondered.

Miss Thompson was. So-inexplicably-was Viscount Whitleaf. He was getting to his feet as Susanna opened the door, and he bowed to her as she stepped inside.

She felt suddenly robbed of breath-just as she had been yesterday when the sight of him in the Upper Assembly Rooms had been equally unexpected. But at least then she had had a few minutes in which to recover herself without having to feel that everyone’s eyes were upon her. Today all three occupants of the room were looking at her.

“Miss Thompson?” She smiled. “Viscount Whitleaf?”

What on earth was he doing here? He was supposed to be miles away.

“Miss Osbourne,” Miss Thompson said, her eyes twinkling. “I might have guessed that a plain gray work dress would only make your hair appear even more vibrantly auburn. If I were ten years younger I would be mortally jealous of you.”

“Miss Thompson will be staying for the afternoon,” Claudia said. “Viscount Whitleaf is about to take his leave, but he wishes to call in on Lady Potford with a message. She has sent an invitation for me to join her and Miss Thompson at a concert in Bath Abbey tomorrow evening. I will be unable to attend, having promised to give three of the senior girls extra coaching for their history examination next week. However, Miss Thompson has suggested that perhaps you would like to go instead of me, Susanna.”

“I should be delighted if you will agree, Miss Osbourne,” Miss Thompson assured her. “And I am sure Lady Potford will be too.”

It was hard for Susanna to think straight with Viscount Whitleaf standing silently not six feet away. But the chance to attend an evening concert was certainly enticing. She very rarely attended any entertainment that was not directly related to the school. And the Abbey was such a beautiful church.

“Your drama practice is tonight,” Claudia said, “and there is no study hall tomorrow, it being Friday. I see nothing to stop you from going, Susanna, except inclination.”

“Oh, inclination would certainly take me there,” Susanna assured her.

“Splendid!” Miss Thompson exclaimed. “Then it is settled.”

“I shall inform Lady Potford of the slight change in plans,” Viscount Whitleaf said. “And I shall take my leave, ma’am.” He bowed to Claudia. “Perhaps Miss Osbourne would see me on my way?”

On his way? He should be well on his way beyond Bath by now, shouldn’t he?

“Why are you still in Bath?” she asked him after they had stepped out into the hallway and he had closed the study door behind him. For once there was no sign of Mr. Keeble. “I thought all the wedding guests were leaving early this morning.”

“I waved everyone else on the way,” he said, “and then discovered two things. First that Miss Thompson had no escort to Lady Potford’s on Great Pulteney Street or here to the school, and second that really I had nowhere of pressing importance to go myself.”

“Have you been home to Sidley Park yet?” she asked.

It felt somehow surreal to see him here inside the school, which was such a very feminine domain. He was wearing a long, multi-caped greatcoat, which somehow made him seem larger and more broad-shouldered and more masculine than ever. Susanna felt half suffocated by his presence.

“Since August?” he said. “Oh, yes, indeed. I went after my mother’s houseguests had left. But the drawing room had turned pink and lacy in my absence-it is horribly hideous. And the dining room is to turn lavender after Christmas, which I am expected to spend at Sidley in company with a certain Miss Flynn-Posy and her mama and papa among other people. I shall have to go if only to save my dining room from such a ghastly fate.”

He looked so comically forlorn that she could not stop her lips from twitching with amusement.

“I daresay you are too kind to speak your objections openly to your mother,” she said.

“Not at all,” he said.

“You were actually playing with all the children in the ballroom yesterday when I arrived, were you not?” she said. “I overheard Miss Thompson telling Claudia so after our waltz.”

“I was early, you see,” he said, “and playing with them seemed as good a way as any of passing the time, especially when they had more or less kidnapped me.”

“But no other adult thought to play with them,” she said, “and apparently it did not occur to them to kidnap any other adult-only you, because you wished to amuse them and they recognized in you someone who would pay attention to them and make the afternoon fun for them. But you are not at all kind, of course.”

He grinned a little sheepishly and she knew that now, within moments he was going to open the door and step outside and she was going to close it after him and be alone again.

“I will bring my carriage to fetch you tomorrow evening,” he said. “Will half past six suit you?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“I am staying for a couple of days longer,” he explained. “I have offered to escort Lady Potford and Miss Thompson to the concert.”

“And maneuvered matters so that I would be invited too?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Not at all,” he said. “That was sheer good fortune. I was trying to devise a way of doing it, but it was done for me when Miss Martin said she could not go and Miss Thompson suggested you in her stead.”

She stared at him, speechless.

“Tell me you are glad.” His smile looked a little crooked to her, even perhaps a little wistful-which was surely nonsense.

“I will be very glad to attend the concert,” she said. “Bath Abbey is often used for organ recitals. I love nothing more than to listen to the great pipe organ being played though I have not heard it often. Perhaps there will be some organ pieces tomorrow.”

“You will be glad to attend the concert, ” he said softly. “Well, I must be content with that. I shall come at half past six?”

“Thank you,” she said.

And then he did indeed open the door and step outside, and she did indeed close the door after him and find herself alone again. She closed her eyes briefly and drew a few steadying breaths. Not only was she to attend a concert at the Abbey tomorrow evening as a guest of Lady Potford, but she was also to have Viscount Whitleaf as an escort. It was almost too much to bear. The excitement of anticipation might well kill her.

And she had classes to teach this afternoon-in penmanship and writing. The first class was to begin within the next five or ten minutes, in fact.

Susanna turned away from the door and tried to pretend that this was no different from any other afternoon at school.

This was the damnedest thing, Peter thought as he rapped on the door of Miss Martin’s school again the following evening. He liked music. He often attended concerts and even the opera in London, depending upon which artists were to sing. But a concert in Bath Abbey? He had actually postponed his departure from Bath just because of it-when he had still thought the ladies he was to escort there were to be Lady Potford, Miss Thompson, and Miss Martin?

It really was just good fortune that had replaced the last-named lady with Susanna Osbourne. His mind had been working furiously over various schemes for including her in the party, but he had known perfectly well that it was unlikely that both resident teachers would leave the school together for a whole evening-especially so soon after the wedding breakfast.

It really was the damnedest thing, then, but here he was anyway. And there she was-he saw her as soon as the school porter, looking more sour-faced than ever, opened the door to admit him. She was wearing a plain gray cloak-but Miss Thompson had been quite right yesterday about the effect of such a drab color on her hair. Miss Martin, who was with her, was handing her a paisley shawl, which she would doubtless need inside the Abbey. Churches were notoriously chilly places.

There she was -the phrase repeated itself inside his mind as if there were an echo in there.

“Good evening, Miss Martin, Miss Osbourne.” He bowed to them.

She looked wide-eyed and slightly flushed in the light of a table lamp-Susanna, that was-and he realized with a pang of tenderness that this must be a grand occasion for her, just as the assembly in Somerset had been.

“I am ready,” she said, her voice slightly breathless.

“I trust,” Miss Martin said, “that Lady Potford and Miss Thompson are awaiting you in your carriage, Lord Whitleaf?”

“They are awaiting me at Lady Potford’s house, ma’am,” he assured her. “A mere five-minute drive from here.”

She inclined her head and turned her attention to her fellow teacher.

“Do have a lovely time, Susanna,” she said, her voice softening, “and give my regards to the other ladies.”

“I will,” Susanna said and stepped forward so that he could cup her elbow in his palm and escort her out onto the pavement.

He took her hand in his to help her up the steps into his carriage. She sat with her back to the horses, he noticed, in order to leave the better seat for the other ladies. He vaulted in after her and sat beside her.

It was only after his coachman had shut the door, climbed up to the box, and set the carriage in motion that the door of the school closed.

“Miss Martin cares about you,” he said. “So does the male dragon.”

“Mr. Keeble?” She laughed. “He cares about us all, girls and teachers alike. He would guard us all from the wicked world beyond the school doors if he could.”

“And I am the big, bad wolf?” he asked as the carriage turned onto Sutton Street.

“You are a man, ” she said, and laughed, “which in his eyes is probably far worse. I may be only a schoolteacher, Lord Whitleaf, but to Claudia and to Mr. Keeble I am also a lady and must be protected from any possibility of harm.”

“You are first and foremost a lady,” he said as the carriage made its big turn onto Great Pulteney Street, “who happens also to be a schoolteacher.”

She turned her head and their eyes met in the dim light cast by the carriage lamps that burned outside.

And we both know what sort of harm can come to a lady who is not properly protected.

He did not say the words aloud. He did not need to.

He was not in the habit of recalling sexual experiences from the past. They were something for present enjoyment and future anticipation. He rarely even thought of former mistresses. Yet he had a sudden, vivid memory of lying with Susanna Osbourne on the hill above the river at Barclay Court. He could remember the feel of her warm woman’s body beneath his, of…

Well.

Why did one always remember the very things one would prefer to forget?

“Has Miss Thompson decided to take a teaching position at the school?” he asked.

“She spent all of yesterday afternoon with us,” she said, “and seemed to enjoy herself. I believe she very well may decide to stay. I hope so. We all like her exceedingly well. Claudia believes it is simply her misfortune to be a sister-in-law of the Duke of Bewcastle and does not hold it against her. Claudia is not kindly disposed to any of the Bedwyns, particularly Lady Hallmere and the duke.”

They both laughed. But there was no time for further conversation. The carriage stopped outside Lady Potford’s house and he descended in order to rap on the door and then hand in the ladies for the drive to the Abbey at the other side of the river.

Bath Abbey was an impressive building, as most great Gothic churches were. This one was more lovely than most, with its pointed arched windows so large that one wondered how there could be enough solid wall left to support the great height and weight of the building. Tall pillars along the nave stretched upward until they spread into a fan-vaulted ceiling far overhead, drawing the eyes and the mind and the spirit heavenward. It was a magnificent setting for a concert, Peter thought as he escorted the ladies inside. As soon as they stepped through the door, Lady Potford moved ahead with Miss Thompson while Peter took Susanna on his arm and followed them.

“Oh,” she said, “I have brought classes here on sightseeing walks. I have even attended church here a few times. I have always been in awe of its splendor. But I have never before seen it lit up at night. It is absolutely…magical.”

“Magical.” He smiled down at her. “You had better not let any clergyman hear you describe it with that word.”

She laughed softly.

“Mystical, then,” she said. “Oh, look, there must be a thousand candles burning, and the light is shivering in the drafts of air. Have you ever seen anything more…”

“Magical?” he said. “No, never.”

He loved her innocent enthusiasm, something the typical young lady of the ton soon learned to disguise beneath a fashionable veneer of ennui. And yet there was nothing childlike about Susanna Osbourne. She was all vivid womanhood.

Her attention soon moved, though, from their surroundings to the people who occupied it, and she looked immediately apprehensive.

The audience was impressively large. Its nature was much as Peter had expected, though. Most people were elderly or at least past the first blush of youth. Except for Susanna and Miss Thompson, there was no one here he had known longer than a couple of days. It was the wrong time of year for there to be many visitors. These people would be almost exclusively residents of Bath.

He had met a number of them at the Pump Room this morning during the daily promenade, which he had joined for lack of anything else to do-and because he genuinely liked people no matter what their age or social status. He had aroused a great deal of interest, partly because he was a stranger and partly, he suspected, because he was below the age of forty.

Several of those people greeted him now as he moved along the central aisle closer to the front of the church with his party. Several others looked at him and Miss Osbourne with interest. Others greeted Lady Potford, and she stopped a few times to exchange greetings with acquaintances.

“Oh, there is Mr. Blake,” Susanna said, and smiled more broadly as she raised a hand in greeting, “and Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Do you wish to speak with them?” he asked.

“Maybe later,” she said. “Mr. Blake is the physician who attends the school when anyone is ill. Betsy Reynolds is a day pupil at the school.”

She was holding firmly to his arm, but he suspected that she was enjoying herself.

She was a lady, he thought. Her father had been William Osbourne. A mere nobody did not generally rise to the exalted position of secretary to a government minister or take up residence in that minister’s country home.

But William Osbourne, for some unknown reason, had put a bullet through his brain.

Peter took a seat next to the aisle. Susanna sat beside him with Miss Thompson beyond her and then Lady Potford. It was a little chilly, but even so he helped Susanna off with her cloak, which he draped over the back of her chair while she arranged her paisley shawl about her shoulders. She was wearing the same green gown she had worn to the assembly, he could see. It was trimmed with the ribbon she had bought at the village shop to which he had escorted her.

For a few moments he was assaulted by nostalgic memories of that fortnight, during which she had so unexpectedly become his friend-before he had spoiled it all by becoming her lover. He could vividly remember her laughing in his curricle and thus revealing the fact that as well as being terrified she was also exhilarated.

She had been so full of surprises during those two weeks. He had come very close to falling in love with her in earnest-something he had not admitted to himself until very recently.

Perhaps fortunately for his peace of mind, the concert began soon after they had seated themselves. There was a full orchestra. More important, there was the great pipe organ, which played several solos and inundated every light-filled space and every shadowed alcove of the Abbey with the music of Handel and Bach.

“You were quite right about the organ,” he said, moving his head closer to Susanna’s at the end of one of the pieces.

Her eyes were glowing with happiness.

“This is like a little piece of heaven,” she said.

This. What did she include in the word? he wondered. But she was quite right. This was easily the best evening he had spent since…Well, since he did not know when. His mind scanned all the evenings he had spent in London before going to Alvesley Park and then slipped back beyond them to a certain evening in Somerset when he had waltzed at a mere country assembly and then taken a stroll along the village street.

Perhaps he really had fallen a little in love with her. He hoped not. But he did not know quite how else to describe his relationship with Susanna Osbourne or his feelings for her. It was not just friendship, was it? It was a little deeper than that. And it was not quite being in love either. It was less frivolous than that.

He realized that the orchestra was in the middle of Handel’s Water Music, but he had no recollection at all of the first half of the performance. He focused his mind on the rest of it.

There were several small interludes during the course of the evening, when the audience could relax for a minute or two and exchange comments on the program. At the end, Peter knew, everyone would be reluctant to go home. Everyone would stand about in groups, talking, for perhaps half an hour before drifting off home. He looked forward to that half hour or so even though he would not wish away the rest of the evening.

But as it happened he was almost the first to leave.

Susanna had turned her head several times during the evening and had sometimes tipped it back to look upward. She was unabashedly admiring her surroundings and looking at her fellow audience members, Peter knew. He supposed that she was storing memories to take back to school with her. She turned her head away from him just before the final organ piece and looked back over her shoulder. It seemed to him that she turned to face the front again in great haste, and he noticed that she gripped the edges of her shawl very tightly with both hands.

He looked back himself, but a large, broad man two rows back was just straightening up after talking with someone next but one to him, and he effectively blocked the view of most of the audience farther back.

Peter turned his attention to a triumphant organ rendition of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.

He turned, smiling, to Susanna after the last notes had echoed through the high vaults. She was shivering.

“Are you cold?” he asked, setting a hand over one of her clenched ones-and it was indeed like ice.

“I must leave now,” she said, her teeth chattering. “The concert has gone on longer than I expected. Claudia will be wondering…” She turned her head, and Peter could hear her speaking to Lady Potford above the hubbub of voices that followed the ending of the recital. “I must leave now, ma’am. I am expected back at school. I do thank you for inviting me-and you for suggesting me, Miss Thompson.”

“Oh, but you must not rush away, my dear,” Lady Potford said. “Miss Martin will certainly understand, and I daresay there are no classes tomorrow. I was hoping you and Viscount Whitleaf would come back for some tea.”

But Susanna did not even wait for her to finish speaking. She was drawing her cloak about her and getting to her feet, though her shoulders were hunched over as she did so. She stepped past Peter and hurried along the aisle, her head down.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Thompson said, “whatever has happened to upset her? She appeared to be enj-”

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Peter said, getting to his feet. “I will follow and make sure she gets home safely. Lady Potford, please do take my carriage and instruct my coachman not to wait for me.”

He did not hear her reply. Susanna was already almost out of the Abbey. He hurried after her.

He caught up with her at the outer doors and took her by the elbow.

“Something has happened to upset you,” he said.

“No.” She lifted a smiling face to his. “But I am always anxious when I have been away from the school for any length of time. It does not seem fair. Do not let me take you away early, Lord Whitleaf. I shall walk back alone. I am used to doing so.”

“At night? You most certainly will not walk alone on this night,” he said. “Will you not wait for my carriage? It should be here soon.”

She shook her head.

“I must go back,” she said.

“Then I will escort you.” He drew her arm firmly through his.

“Thank you.”

It was all she said for a few minutes as they walked. Actually, he discovered, it was not a cold night, and what little wind there was was behind them.

He wondered what had happened to rob her of her joy in the evening’s entertainment. Perhaps, he thought as he walked beside her and looked down at her bowed head, she had started remembering-as he had earlier. For him the memories were uncomfortable and touched upon his honor. For her they must be far worse even than that.

He set one gloved hand over hers on his arm.

“Susanna,” he said, “I must ask you, much as it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie. Did I… hurt you in any way at Barclay Court? Not just physically, I mean, though that too, I suppose. Did I?”

Foolish question. Could the answer be anything but yes? And could he expect her to say anything but no?

“No,” she said. “No, you did not.”

“I have felt dashed guilty,” he told her. “I have never done anything to compare with it in infamy either before or since, I swear. I am not a seducer-or was not.”

“You did not seduce me,” she said firmly as they turned to walk across the Pulteney Bridge. “What happened was by mutual consent.”

They were reassuring words, and of course he knew there was truth in them. But they were essentially meaningless words, nonetheless. What else could she say? He sighed aloud.

“But it is not good enough,” he said. “Dash it all, it just is not. Will you marry me, Susanna? Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

The words seemed to come out of their own volition. And yet he felt an enormous relief that he had spoken them. They should have been spoken up on that hill. They should have been spoken the next day-he should have hurried over to Barclay Court before she left. He should have followed her to Bath instead of going first to London and then home and then to Alvesley. He should have spoken the words the day before yesterday in the Upper Assembly Rooms.

Will you marry me?

He knew suddenly that he had done the right thing at last, that he had wanted to say those words for a long time. He knew that finally he had done the honorable thing, and the thing he wished to do-he wished to protect this woman, who had somehow become his very dear friend, perhaps his dearest friend. The fact that she was not with child did not lessen his obligation to her.

She continued walking at his side, their footsteps echoing along the deserted Great Pulteney Street. He began to think she would not answer at all. He even began to wonder if he had asked the question out loud or only in his thoughts.

“No,” she said at last. “No, of course I will not.”

“Why not?” he asked after another short silence while they continued on past Lady Potford’s house.

“A better question might be why, ” she said. “You cannot marry someone simply because you feel guilty.”

Was that his reason? If he had not dishonored her at Barclay Court, would the idea of marrying her ever have crossed his mind? It was a foolish question, of course. The point was that he had dishonored her. And it was surely more than guilt that had impelled him to ask the question.

As they turned into Sutton Street, she laughed softly.

“When you say your prayers tonight, Lord Whitleaf,” she said, “you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.”

“You still believe, then,” he said, curling his fingers around hers, “that I am incapable of any deep emotion?”

“I know you are not, ” she said. “But I know that kindness is one of your most dominant attributes-that and gallantry to ladies. You cannot-or ought not to-contract a marriage on such things alone. You need to look deeper into your own heart. You need to learn to like yourself too.”

Her words smote him deeply. Despite her denials she had looked at him and seen a man incapable of any deeper feeling than kindness. She did not believe that the offer of his heart was a significant enough gift. But did he believe it? He had not offered his heart, had he?

He had lost all confidence in love several years ago. He had given all the love of his eager young heart to Bertha Grantham and had made a prize idiot of himself as a result.

Was the real problem that he had lost confidence in himself? In his ability to love or be loved? Had he stopped liking himself? He had felt like an idiot-a gullible, naïve fool. But did that mean he had stopped liking himself?

It was such a novel-and disturbing-thought that he said nothing as they approached the school and their footsteps slowed.

“You must not think you owe me marriage,” she said, her voice gentle now, as if he were the one who needed consolation, “just because you believe I was hurt in the summer and imagine that I am lonely and unhappy with my life as it is. Even if all those things were true-which they are not-they are no reason for a marriage. Not on either side. You owe me nothing.”

“I see,” he said as they stopped walking. His mind was paralyzed. He could think of nothing else to say to her. It was actually a relief when the door opened even before he could knock upon it, and the ever-present porter peered out at them.

But he could not let her go this way. He could not say good-bye like this.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “There are no classes, are there?”

“Except the usual games class in the morning,” she said. “I always supervise it out in the meadows unless it is raining.”

“May I see you tomorrow afternoon, then?” he asked her. “We can go walking-perhaps in Sydney Gardens if the weather permits. And perhaps we can go somewhere for tea afterward-somewhere public, of course, so that the proprieties may be observed.”

It would be altogether better, he thought-for both of them-if she said no. But he willed her not to refuse him. He did not want this to be good-bye. He wanted the chance to laugh with her once again before they went their separate ways forever.

She had drawn her hand free of his arm. She took him completely by surprise now when she drew off one of her gloves and set her fingertips gently against his cheek.

“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

He swallowed and turned his head to brush his lips against her palm. But only for a moment. That porter had not moved back out of sight. Peter half expected that he would growl at any moment-or open his mouth and spew out a stream of fire.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” he said, stepping back. “Good night.”

“Good night. And thank you for walking back with me,” she said, before turning and hurrying inside.

The door closed with a click behind her.

…you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.

He ought to agree with her. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction and his sisters’ if he had proceeded to present Susanna Osbourne to them as his chosen bride. They would not be happy.

But dash it all, he could not agree.

And devil take it, if this was what being in love felt like, he had been wise to guard his heart for the past several years.

With a deep sigh he turned to begin the long walk back to his hotel.