Simply Magic

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.”

“Susanna,” Edith said, jumping up too, “do call on us again. Perhaps we can go walking together or shopping. Perhaps-”

“No,” Susanna said. “My teaching duties occupy me almost all day every day, Edith, and there is the Christmas concert coming up to keep me even busier. I had last evening off and this afternoon. I have used up my quota of free time for quite a while. I…You have your husband and son now to occupy your life. We move in different worlds. It would be best to leave it that way.”

Edith folded her hands at her waist. She looked hurt.

“I shall write to you,” she said. “I daresay you will be able to find a few spare minutes in which to read a letter.”

“Thank you.” Susanna gave her a tight smile.

“This has been a pleasure,” Lady Markham said. “You will never know, Susanna, how many times over the years I have lain awake wondering what happened to you, wondering if you were alive or dead and if we could have done anything more at the time to find you. I am delighted that you came. You will see her safely back to Miss Martin’s school, Whitleaf?”

“I will, ma’am,” he said, bowing.

But it seemed to him as they stepped out onto the street a few minutes later that the visit had not settled a great deal. Perhaps it did not have to, though. Susanna seemed not to want to find out exactly what had happened eleven years ago and why. Perhaps the comfort of knowing that her father had written to her was enough. It would not be enough for him, but that was not the point, was it?

And at least the visit had given pleasure to Lady Markham and Edith and had perhaps persuaded Susanna that she had not been the unwanted burden she had thought she was.

“Are you glad you came?” he asked, drawing her arm through his.

She turned her head to look at him briefly.

“Yes,” she said. “I would have been afraid to set foot beyond the school doors for fear of running into them. Now I have come face-to-face with them and discovered that they are just people and just as I remember them. Edith is pretty, is she not? I hope she will be happy with Mr. Morley.”

“Even though you never could be?” He chuckled.

“But I was not asked to be, was I?” She laughed too.

It was good to hear her laugh again.

And so the end had come. She might have been celebrating her betrothal now. Instead she was about to say good-bye.

By her own choice.

Susanna knew as they walked along Great Pulteney Street in silence and turned onto Sydney Place that memories of her visit to Lady Markham and Edith would return to haunt her for some time to come, along with her decision not to press on with inquiries into the contents of her father’s letter to Sir Charles Markham or into the possible continued existence of the letter he had written her.

But she could not think of any of that now.

Her heart was heavy. She felt that with every step she took she trod on it, increasing her pain.

Yet at the beginning of the afternoon she had been so hopeful that it could all end cheerfully and amicably. The fact that she loved him was of little significance. Given the circumstances of her life, it would have been strange indeed if she had not fallen in love with him. She would recover. How could she not? A happy marriage between them would be impossible for all sorts of reasons, and she would rather lose him altogether and forever than have an unhappy marriage with him.

But, oh, at the moment it was very hard to think such sensible thoughts. In an hour’s time she would think them, perhaps. Tonight she would think them, and next week, and next month. But now…

“I shall be making an early start for London in the morning,” he said as they turned onto Sutton Street and the school came into sight.

“Yes,” she said. “There cannot be much to keep a visitor in Bath, especially at this time of year.”

“I have spent a pleasant few days here, though,” he said.

“I am glad.”

They spoke to each other like cheerful, polite strangers.

“It has been good to see you again,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “we will meet again sometime.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant.”

Their footsteps slowed and then stopped altogether before they turned onto Daniel Street.

“Susanna,” he said, his hand covering hers on his arm, though he did not turn his head to look down at her. “I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you. I know you do not like me half the time or approve of me the other half, but I do care. I think we were friends once. I think in many ways we still are. But when we became more than friends on that one afternoon, it really was more. I was not just a lustful man taking advantage of being alone with an innocent woman. I cared for you. I know you do not want me or need me. I know you are happy with the life you have. But I think perhaps in some way you have cared too, and I wanted you to know that…Well. Was there ever a more muddled monologue, and just at the time when I most wanted to be eloquent and say something memorable?”

“Oh, Peter,” she said, clinging to his arm, “I do like you. Of course I do. And of course I approve of most of what I see in you. How could I not? You are always so very kind. And I care for you too.”

“But not enough to marry me?” he asked her, still not looking at her.

“No.” It was easier just to say no than try to explain-it was impossible, anyway, to explain all her reasons. “I do thank you, but no, we would not suit.”

“No,” he said softly, “I suppose not. I will leave you here, then.”

“Yes.” Panic grabbed at her stomach, her knees, her throat. She slid her hand from his arm.

He turned then and took both her hands in his, squeezing them so tightly for a moment that she almost winced. He lifted them one at a time and set her gloved palms to his lips.

He raised his eyes to hers-and smiled.

“An already glorious November day has seemed warmer and brighter because of your presence in it,” he said, misquoting his very first words to her. “Thank you, Susanna.”

And so he drew a smile from her even though her heart was breaking.

“Foolish,” she said. “Ah, foolish.”

And somehow they both laughed.

“Good-bye, Peter,” she said.

And because she could not bear any more, she dashed with ungainly haste around the corner and up to the door of the school, and she lifted the knocker and let it fall with more force than was necessary.

She glanced toward the corner as Mr. Keeble opened the door, but there was no one there. She stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.

And now it seemed to her that there was nothing left to live for. Nothing at all. She was in too much distress to notice the melodrama of the thought.

I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you.

Mary Fisher, one of the middle school boarders, was on her way up the stairs. She turned back when she saw who had come through the door.

“Oh, Miss Osbourne,” she cried, all excitement, “we and Mr. Upton have made the changes you wanted to the sketches for the scenery and finished them. They are ever so gorgeous. Do come and see.”

“Of course. I can hardly wait. Lead the way, then, Mary,” Susanna said, smiling brightly as she pulled loose the ribbons of her bonnet. “Have you been working all afternoon? How splendid of you.”

I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you.

… before I leave…

And now he was gone.