Simply Magic

25

No one could remember the time when the last grand entertainment had been held at Sidley. For days the neighborhood had been buzzing with the news that there was finally to be a ball there, and on Christmas Day of all days. It seemed like a special gift from the young viscount.

He had always been liked and admired from afar. It had always been said that he was warmer, more human, than the viscountess, his mother. And now they were convinced of it. He had delivered the invitations personally and had begged everyone to come, to join his family and friends in a great celebration of the season-as if they were the ones doing him a favor.

No one would have missed the ball for any consideration whatsoever. Anticipation of the moment when they might decently leave for Sidley overshadowed all other observances of Christmas, even the morning church service and the dinnertime goose.

It was much the same at Sidley itself, though there was an afternoon party for the children in the drawing room hosted by the viscount and attended by many of their parents while most other adults rested in their rooms in preparation for the evening’s revels.

The house was lavishly decorated with holly and pine boughs and ribbons and bells and a Yule log in the drawing room. There was also a large and intricately woven kissing bough there-the creation of three of the viscount’s sisters-suspended from the center of the ceiling and the focus of much interested attention and stifled giggles after its appearance there late on Christmas Eve.

The house was filled too with enticing Christmas smells, even late in the day, long after the goose and the plum pudding had been cleared away from the dining room table. The smell of mince pies was the most dominant, but there was too the spicy aroma of the wassail, which was to fill the huge bowl in the refreshment room as soon as the ball began.

Peter enjoyed the day even though he had rarely spent a busier one. He was genuinely fond of all his sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews, and he found all the other guests congenial company. He was particularly delighted by the romance that appeared to be developing between one of Barbara’s young brothers-in-law and Miss Flynn-Posy. Whether the lady’s mother was equally delighted was unclear, but that was not his concern.

His own mother proved remarkably resilient. She showed no traces of the upset she had suffered two evenings ago. She spoke of the ball to everyone with an enthusiasm that suggested it had always had her full approval. She had even begun to speak out during the past two days about setting up a home for herself in London before the spring Season began so that she might enjoy more social life.

“It is high time,” she told Lady Flynn-Posy and Barbara and Belinda. “Peter is quite old enough now to fend for himself.”

Peter enjoyed the day, but it was the evening for which he waited with mingled eagerness and anxiety.

The eagerness was for the fact that this felt like his coming-of-age party. Tonight he would finally be the master of Sidley Park, entertaining his guests and neighbors as he planned to do for the rest of his life-regardless of the outcome of his other plan for the evening. It was the uncertainty of that outcome that caused his anxiety, of course. He was not at all certain that Susanna would have him even if he and her three grandparents all went down on their knees before her and begged.

Susanna Osbourne had a sometimes-annoying tendency to think for herself and decide for herself.

Not that he would have her any other way, of course.

But his newfound confidence in himself and determination to live his own life and take on the duties and responsibilities of his position would not be dependent upon Susanna’s answer. They would not be worth a great deal if they were.

He did have her to thank. He would possibly have drifted on in much the same way as ever if he had not met her. But he was not dependent upon her-just as she was not on him. It was an exhilarating thought, but it did nothing to soothe his growing anxiety as he dressed for the ball.

The fact that he was titled and wealthy meant nothing to her-a humbling thought. If he was to win her, he must do it as himself-and for the first time in five years he felt that there was some self worth offering. But his name went along with that self. He was Whitleaf, and there, he knew, was the stumbling block.

“That will do,” he told his valet, who had already discarded three perfectly decently tied neckcloths as unworthy of his artistry before tying this fourth.

His valet-another individual who had a mind of his own, dash it all-tipped his head to one side and considered his handiwork with frowning concentration.

“It will, m’ lord,” he agreed. “It only needs the diamond pin-just so-just… there. Perfection, m’ lord.”

It was still a little early, but Peter went downstairs anyway and wandered into the ballroom, which looked festive with all the decorations and smelled of greenery. Candles burned in the chandeliers overhead and in wall sconces. Two great fires burned in the fireplaces at either end of the room. They failed to warm the large, high-ceilinged room quite adequately, but they did take the chill off the air. And once the ballroom was filled with people, and once those people began to engage in the exertions of a few country dances, there would be more than enough warmth in the room.

The orchestra had arrived. Their instruments were laid out on the small dais in one corner of the ballroom. They were probably belowstairs, feasting on goose and stuffing.

A few servants were busy in the refreshment room beyond the ballroom. Peter wandered through there to chat with them. His only real concern about the ball had been his realization that the extra work would be a burden on the resident servants and would necessitate the hiring of more. But he had discovered when he asked that the prospect of serving at a grand ball at Sidley excited them all-even before they knew that he was doubling all their wages for both today and tomorrow. And tomorrow he would also present them all with a Christmas bonus that was more generous than usual.

And then he could hear that some other people-relatives and guests from the house-had arrived in the ballroom and he went back in there to speak with them. Soon now the first of the outside guests would arrive. He would greet them all at the ballroom door with his mother and Barbara and Clarence.

It was, he realized fifteen minutes later as he shook hands with Mr. Mummert and bowed to Mrs. and Miss Mummert, complimenting them both on their appearance and thanking them all for coming, the first time he had stood in a receiving line. It was the first time he had been the host of such an event.

It would not be the last, by Jove.

The party from Fincham was almost the last to arrive. Lady Markham came along the line with Theo, and Peter greeted them heartily. His mother and Lady Markham, he noticed, nodded civilly to each other. Edith and Morley followed and then Colonel and Mrs. Osbourne. Susanna came last with her maternal grandfather.

Peter discovered that his heart was thudding so hard in his chest that he could actually hear it.

She was wearing the same green gown she had worn to the assembly in Somerset and to the concert in Bath Abbey. Her hair was brushed into soft curls, some of which were held in place by a little pearl tiara, which matched her pearl necklace. The pearls looked glossy and new and were, he would be willing to wager, a Christmas gift from one or more of her grandparents. Perhaps the delicate ivory fan she carried in one gloved hand was from the other.

Her cheeks were flushed but her eyes were downcast. She was not smiling. She would rather be anywhere else on earth than where she actually was, Peter guessed. Perhaps she would never forgive him for this. Perhaps she would always remember it as one of the worst evenings she had ever spent.

“It is good to see you again, sir,” he said, bowing to the Reverend Clapton, who beamed genially back at him. “And you too, Miss Osbourne.”

She raised her eyes briefly to his.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

There was no one coming along directly after them. He spoke up before he should, perhaps, miss the opportunity.

“Will you honor me by dancing the second set with me?” he asked. “And the first waltz?”

He would dance the last one with her too-he hoped.

Her grandfather beamed even more jovially.

She hesitated for only a fraction of a moment.

“Thank you,” she said. “That will be pleasant.”

He would have asked for the opening set, but he would not embarrass her by singling her out so notably before all his family and neighbors. He would open the ball with Barbara.

The Reverend Clapton was bowing to his mother and smiling as he exchanged civilities with her. Peter was more than ever convinced that the name Whitleaf meant nothing to the gentleman-or to the Osbournes.

But Susanna’s eyes were downcast again as she curtsied, and he could feel his mother stiffen.

“Miss Osbourne,” she said, “how delightful that you are staying at Fincham at just this time. Do enjoy the ball.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Susanna said without looking up at her.

It must have been an excruciating moment for each of them, Peter thought. Was he quite, quite mad to believe that he could ever marry Susanna and live happily-ever-after with her? But no, he had already decided that he did not believe in happily-ever-after. And he had already decided too that he would fight for happiness.

The moment was past, and both ladies were still in the ballroom, and both were smiling.

“Peter.” Barbara linked an arm through his. “It is surely time to start the dancing. I am quite unwilling to delay any longer since I am to dance the opening set with my handsome brother. I will be the envy of every other lady in the room.”

He laughed as he led her onto the floor, to the head of the set that soon formed for the first country dance. Suddenly he felt lighthearted and filled with hope. It was Christmas, after all, the time of year most devoted to hope and new dreams and love.

“I am amazed to see Susanna Osbourne here,” Barbara said. “Do you remember her? Her father was that unfortunate secretary of Sir Charles’s who took his own life. We were always discouraged from having anything to do with her because her father was basically a servant, though Edith played with her all the time. And yet I always believed there was something of a friendship between Mama and Mr. Osbourne.”

“I met her only once as a child,” Peter said. “But I met her again this past summer at John Raycroft’s and again during the autumn at the wedding breakfast in Bath I attended with Lauren and Kit.”

“Did you?” she said with interest.

And then she glanced at Susanna, who was being led onto the floor by Theo, and looked back at him more sharply.

“Oh, did you!” she said.

Susanna reflected in some wonder on the fact that until the end of August she had never attended a single ball or assembly, whereas now she had been to two, and she had waltzed in the Upper Assembly Rooms in Bath.

And tonight she even had her grandmother as her chaperone and one grandfather to smile kindly at each of her prospective partners and another to frown suspiciously at them.

Although half the guests were clearly members of the ton and might have intimidated her a few months ago, all of them were just as clearly prepared to enjoy themselves. And the other half of the guests were what she thought of as ordinary people. They reminded her of Frances’s neighbors whom she liked so well.

The ballroom, heavily laden with Christmas greenery and decorations, was breathtaking. Even without the decorations it would be a lovely room, she guessed. It was amazing that she had lived so close to Sidley for twelve years without once even so much as seeing the house.

She would have been enjoying herself enormously, she thought at the end of the fourth set as the very young and eager Mr. Flynn-Posy led her back to her grandmother’s side, if only…

Ah, her life had been blighted with if-onlys since the summer.

She would forget them for tonight. She would simply enjoy herself. She had already danced four sets in a row-one of them, a set of vigorous country dances, with Peter. The next set was to be a waltz.

She would not even think of it as the last waltz.

“You dance so prettily, Susanna,” her grandmother said, taking her by the hand and drawing her down to sit beside her. “And you are so pretty. How proud I am of you, and how happy to have lived to see this day.”

And then Peter was there again, bowing and smiling and charming her grandmother, and finally turning to her and holding out one hand.

“This is my waltz, I believe, Miss Osbourne,” he said.

And then once more they were waltzing. Except that this time, though she smiled into his eyes and smelled his cologne and felt the exhilaration of every step they took, she did not lose herself in the dance. This time she was aware of his home about them and his family and neighbors. She was aware of her own family and almost wept at the novelty of the thought. She was aware of her friends-and the Markhams and Morleys were her friends and always had been. She did not know what Lady Markham had meant in that long-ago snippet of conversation she had overheard outside the nursery, and she had not asked, but she knew now that Lady Markham had always cared for her and would have somehow continued to do so. It really must have been a burden to be left so suddenly with an orphan child and not to know what to do with her.

And she was aware of Christmas, that season of love and family and peace and generosity.

It was all, she thought, simply magical.

“A penny for them,” Peter said as they twirled about a corner, and she remembered that he had said that to her once before, after their walk to the waterfall. She had been feeling melancholy then.

“You do belong here,” she said. “I am so glad I have seen you here in your own proper milieu. I think your dream is within your grasp.”

He smiled as he twirled her again-and somehow they ended up outside the ballroom doors, and he was taking her by the hand and striding purposefully off with her in the direction of the hallway. Except that they did not go all the way there, but stopped outside a closed door, which he opened, and then proceeded inside before he closed the door firmly behind them.

It was a library, she could see, a beautiful, cozy room dimly lit by a fire burning in the hearth and a single branch of candles on the mantel.

“Peter?” she said. “The waltz? My grandparents…”

“…know that I am bringing you here,” he said. “At least, your grandfathers do, and I suppose your grandmother does too. She smiled very sweetly at me in the receiving line.”

He released her hand and strode over to the fire and busied himself with poking it into fresh life.

Susanna went a little closer herself and sat on the edge of a chair.

Her grandparents knew?

But they did not know…

He straightened up and stood gazing into the fire, his back to her. She waited for him to speak. And she ached with love for him. And with a knowledge of his kindness, his tenderness, his passion, his very essence.

“My mother drove your father to his death,” he said.

Ah, so he knew? But surely he had not known two days ago.

“He killed himself, ” she said. “He might have made a different choice.”

“She has lived with remorse ever since,” he said, “a fact that does not, of course, excuse what she did. I love her, Susanna. I always have, and I always will. Love, I have discovered, does not judge. It just is.”

“My mother and my father did dreadful things,” she said. “Among other things they broke the hearts of my grandparents. They caused the death of my uncle. But I have always loved them both though I never knew my mother.”

“What I mean,” he said, resting one hand on the high mantel and dipping his head forward, “is that I will never renounce her, Susanna. I will always visit her, and she will always be welcome here, though it will not be her home for much longer. We will be finding somewhere for her to live in London. If I were ever asked to choose between her and you, I would not do it. I would refuse. One cannot choose between love and love. One can choose only by judging one choice better, more worthy, than the other.”

She swallowed.

“Peter,” she said, “you do not have to make a choice. I am going back to school in a few days’ time. My grandparents want me to go and live with them, but I have said no. I will gladly spend holidays with them. I will write to them constantly, but I will not live with them. Or with you.”

His head dipped even farther forward, and there was a lengthy silence between them while she listened to the waltz music coming from the ballroom. Then he straightened up and turned to look at her.

“Tell me you do not love me,” he said.

She shook her head slowly.

“ Tell me.”

“Love does not have anything to do with anything,” she said.

“I beg to disagree,” he said. “Love has everything to do with everything. Tell me you do not love me and I will take you back to the ballroom and we will not see each other again after this evening. Tell me, Susanna. But tell me the truth.”

She had never seen him so serious. His face looked drawn and pale in the candlelight. His eyes were intense on hers.

“Peter,” she said, looking sharply down at her hands, “it would be distasteful, even sordid, when your mother and my father…”

“…were lovers,” he said. “Did it seem sordid at Barclay Court? Did it seem sordid at the dower house two days ago? It is an ugly fact, and it should make any connection between you and me somewhat distasteful. But we cannot do anything to change the past. It is as it is. Are we willing to give up the present and the future because of it? Life is not perfect, Susanna. We can only live the reality of what is. It would not be possible without love. I know it is something of a cliché to say that love makes all things possible, but I believe it does. It is not a magic wand that can be waved over life to make it all sweet and lovely and trouble-free, but it can give the energy to fight the odds and win.”

She raised her eyes to his.

“And love is something we have in abundance,” he said. “Tell me if I am wrong.”

She said nothing.

“Not just a sweet, sentimental, romantic kind of love,” he said, “though there is that too. You have the gritty kind of love, Susanna, which would sacrifice your own happiness if necessary and carry on with life without bitterness. And I have learned a great deal about it in the last little while. I love my family and my home. And I love you.”

“Peter,” she said, but she shook her head and could say no more. She bit her lower lip.

“Are you going to destroy our love,” he said, “just because I am wealthy and titled and you are a schoolteacher-though you are something of an heiress too, I was informed yesterday. And just because I am Whitleaf? Just because I will always honor my mother? Just because she and your father once sought comfort for their loneliness with each other?”

She closed her eyes.

“Or are you going to marry me?” he asked her. “Are you going to make three elderly people in the ballroom very happy by allowing me to make an announcement tonight?”

“Oh, Peter!” She looked up sharply. “That is grossly unfair.”

He stared grimly back at her. And then he smiled. And then grinned.

“It is rather, is it not?” he said. “But will you? Make them happy, that is?”

She had simply despised all those girls in Somerset who had melted beneath his every smile-until, that was, she had realized that it was his sheer likability they had responded to. But even so…

Was she to become one of them?

“What does your mother have to say about this?” she asked him. “Have you told her?”

“I have,” he said. “My mother has been possessive, a little domineering, even selfish, in her dealings with me during my lifetime, Susanna, but there is no doubt in my mind that she loves both my sisters and me totally. She will love my wife rather than lose me. I cannot promise you an easy relationship with her, but I believe I can assure you that it will not be impossible-unless it is to you.”

She gazed at him. Was this really possible after all, then? Or was she listening with her heart rather than with her common sense?

Was it with one’s heart that one ought to listen?

And then he took away all her power to listen with anything but her heart. He closed the distance between them, possessed himself of her gloved hand in both his own, and went down on one knee before her.

“Another horrible cliché,” he said with a grin. But the grin faded almost immediately. “Susanna, will you please, please marry me? If you cannot truthfully tell me that you do not love me, will you tell me instead that you will marry me?”

And the only protest she could think of making was an utter absurdity.

“Peter,” she said, leaning a little closer to him, “I am a teacher. I have obligations to my girls and to Claudia Martin. I cannot simply walk out in the middle of a school year.”

“When does it finish?” he asked her.

“July,” she said.

“Then we will marry in August,” he said. “The month we met. That particular dragon, you see, was not even worthy of the name. A mere worm. Any others?”

“Oh,” she said helplessly, “there must be dozens.”

“Then you had better name them quickly,” he said, “or it will be too late. I am going to kiss you very thoroughly and then bear you off in triumph to the ballroom. Supper follows the waltz-the perfect time for announcements. I arranged it that way.”

“You are very confident, then, Lord Whitleaf,” she said.

“I am not,” he said. “Heaven help me, I am not, Susanna. Put me out of my misery. Tell me that you love me-or do not. Tell me you will marry me-or will not. Please, my love. I am not confident.”

She supposed the dozen reasons for saying no would rush at her long before the night was out. She supposed equally well that she would vanquish them one at a time by the simple expedient of remembering how he looked at this precise moment-anxious, his eyes full of uncertainty and love, down on one knee. And by remembering how she felt at this moment-overwhelmed by love.

She drew her hand free of his, cupped his face with both hands, and leaned forward to kiss him softly on the lips.

“I do,” she said softly, “and I will.”

“I knew, ” he said, “that I should have done this in the drawing room rather than in here. There is a kissing bough there. I suppose, though, I will manage well enough without one.”

And suddenly he was on his feet, bringing her to hers at the same time and drawing her into an embrace that proved his supposition quite correct.

And the strange thing was, Susanna thought-when she could think at all-that it was not in any way a lascivious kiss that they shared, lengthy as it was. It was one of joy, of hope, of commitment, of love.

Ah, yes, those dozen reasons were not going to stand even a moment’s chance of being allowed a hearing.

“My love,” he said against her lips. “My love.”

“Peter,” she said.

And they kissed again before he placed her hand very formally on his arm and led her back in the direction of the ballroom.

The music had stopped.

Everyone was already at supper.

Her betrothal was about to be announced. Her betrothal.