Simply Magic

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.”

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.