Simply Magic Part 18

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

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

aYou will want to freshen up and change for dinner, Susanna,a he said. aI may still call you Susanna?a aOnly if I may still call you Theodore,a she said.

He laughed heartily.

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

aSusanna is very weary,a Lady Markham said when the gentlemen arrived in the room. aI do think that any business you planned to discuss with her tonight, Theodore, must wait until the morning.a Her letter. It was in this very housea"the words her father had written to her just before he died. She had come specifically to read it. And now that she was here she was almost sick with the longing to see it, to hold it, to read it. But not tonight. She needed to be wide awake and strong.

aI was going to suggest the very same thing, Mama,a Theodore said. aWill that suit you, Susanna? Would you like to retire for the night now?a aYes, please,a she said, getting to her feet. aThank you, Theodore. And thank you for inviting me here.a aWe will talk tomorrow, then,a he said. aAnd later tomorrow our other guests should be arriving.a Lady Markham walked with Susanna up to her room.

aI am very happy you came,a she said. aI have always felt that the story of eleven years ago was never properly ended. I have felt it even more since seeing you in Bath. Now perhaps we can all end the story, Susanna, and remain friends after you return to your school. Good night. Do have a good sleep.a And Susanna dida"have a good sleep, that was. She remembered nothing between setting her head on her pillow and waking to the sounds of a maid lighting a fire in the small fireplace in her room. There was a cup of steaming chocolate on the table beside her bed.

What luxury!

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

First, though, she had to sit through breakfast and smile and make light conversation and a.s.sure Editha"quite truthfullya"that she would indeed like to go up to the nursery with her to see Jamie.

aBut not yet, Ede,a Theodore said, getting to his feet at the end of what had seemed an interminable meal. aSusanna and I have business first. Iall fetch your letter, Susanna, and you may read it wherever you wisha"in your room or in the drawing room, which is always empty at this time of day. Or in the library if you prefer.a But suddenly she could not wait even long enough for him to bring it to her. She got to her feet too.

aI will come with you if I may,a she said.

aCertainly,a he said, and she followed him from the room.

But he hesitated outside a certain room, his hand on the k.n.o.b, and Susanna instantly knew why. It was the study that had been her fatheras. It was where he had shot himself.

aIall go in and get it,a he said, smiling kindly at her. aIt will just take a minute.a aPlease,a Susanna said, touching his arm, amay I come in too?a He heaved an audible sigh and opened the door to allow her to precede him inside.

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

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

aIt is strange revisiting a portion of oneas life one had thought long gone,a she said.

aIt is cold in here,a Theodore said after regarding her for a few moments. aI will find the letter and you can go somewhere warm to read it.a aThank you,a she said. She supposed it was cold in here since there was no fire in the hearth and she could hear the wind rattling the windows, beyond which the sky was a leaden gray. But even if she had not been wearing a winter dress and the soft wool shawl Claudia had given her as an early Christmas gift, she did not believe she would really have felt it this morning. aBut I want to read the letter here. May I, please, Theodore?a This was where the letter must have been written, she realizeda"on this very desk. Just beforea Theodore did not argue. He stooped down on his haunches to light the fire, and then he stepped up to the safe and opened it. He turned with a folded, sealed sheet of paper in his hand. Susanna could see that it was somewhat yellowed about the edges.

aI will leave you for a while, then,a he said, aand then come back to answer any questions you may havea"if I can answer them, that is. I was away at school at the time, and I was not told much. But I have read my fatheras letter, and I have spoken with my mother.a aThank you,a she said, but as he handed her the letter, she realized that in fact there were two. Her hand closed about them, and she shut her eyes until she heard the quiet click of the door as he left.

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

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

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

aI am ruined, as perhaps I deserve to be. Your mother has already paid the ultimate price. It is time I did too. And I do ita"or so I tell myself, trying to give my life some touch of n.o.bility at the enda"so that you may live. You have family, Susannaa"mine and your motheras. And either one will be happy enough to take you in once I am gone. They would have taken you at your birth, but I was too selfish to give you up. You were all I had left. I have given instructions to Sir Charles, and you will be united with your family. They will be good to youa"they are good people. They will love you. You will have a secure, happy girlhood with them and a bright future. I promise you this though life will probably seem very bleak to you now as you read. I will take my leave of you, then, my dearest child. Believe that I do love you and always have. Papa.a Susanna rubbed the side of her thumb over that final word. Papa. Had she really called him that? But of course she had. It was only afterward that she had changed his name to my father.

I do it so that you may live.

Must she bear that burden too?

Perhaps I would face that change if I were alone.

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

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

aDo you think I care?a Lady Whitleaf had said, her voice filled with scorn as she tossed her head so that the pink feathered plume in her riding hat nodded against her ear. aI do not care the snap of my fingers for you and never have.a It had struck Susanna that she was very beautiful.

aI am sorry,a her father had said, possessing himself of her hand and carrying it to his lips. aI truly am sorry.a aYou will be very sorry indeed for having set your sights so high,a she had said, s.n.a.t.c.hing back her hand. aAnd for having molested me.a aMolested?a He had taken a step back. aI am sorry if you see my actions that way.a aI do.a She had looked down on him as if he were a worm beneath her feet. aThat I should have deigned to take even a momentas notice of a mere government secretary! I hope your heart is broken. It deserves to be. I hope it drives you to your death.a And she had driven her spurs into the horseas side and gone cantering off down the lane.

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

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

She had familya"or had had eleven years ago, on both her motheras and fatheras side. They would have taken her ina"but not her father. What had he done to offend them so?

I have been accused of two dreadful crimes, one of which I committeda Her mother had paid the ultimate price, and now it was his turn.

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

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

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

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

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

amy dearest child.

Theodore was going to come back, she thought suddenly, and sat up again. Her fatheras letter had raised as many questions as it had answered. Perhaps there were some answersa She reached her hand toward the other letter, whose seal, she could see, was already broken. But did she want to know the secrets of the man who had been her father? How could she not want to know, though, after reading her own letter? Was it really not as she had thought all these years? Was one of the impediments to her marrying Petera"though there were a thousand othersa"to be removed?

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

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

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

aIt distresses me to have brought so much potential scandal to you and your family and this home. You will not be able to continue to champion me. I am ruined and may even be facing criminal prosecution. I see no way out but to do what will already be done by the time you read this. Perhaps my death will silence the lady and so prevent all scandal except what will be the inevitable result of my suicide.

aBut I cannot wait until after I have left Fincham. There is Susanna, you see. She has long been all that is truly precious in my life. Lady Markham and Miss Markham have always been remarkably kind to her, for which I cannot possibly express the full extent of my grat.i.tude. Be kind to her in one more thing, I beg you. Send her to my father with the enclosed letter. He is an honorable and good man. He will give her a home and kindness and even love.

aI thank you, Sir Charles, for allowing me the privilege of serving youaa Susanna did not read the last few sentences. She set the letter down on top of the other one.

She had been right, then, though not in the way she had thought. Lady Whitleaf had driven him to his death. That little snippet of conversation she had overheard between them had meant something a little different from what she had thought, but the outcome had been the same.

Except that he had died not because he loved the viscountess, but at least partly because he had loved her.

She has long been all that is truly precious in my life.

amy dearest child.

She must have been dilly-dallying a great deal over the letters, she realized, when after a brief knock the door opened and Theodore came back into the room. He had been gone for a whole hour, she saw when she glanced at the clock on the mantel.

aI have brought you a cup of tea,a he said, coming to set it down on the desk before going to poke the fire into renewed life.

aTheodore,a she said, awhat had my father done in his past that was so very bad?a He straightened up and turned to look at her.

aAre you surea"a he began.

aYes.a She grasped the edges of her shawl with both hands and drew it closer about her shoulders, even though the room was no longer as chilly as it had been. aI need to know.a aMy father had told my mother,a he said. aYour mother was once married to your fatheras elder brother, Susanna, but she and your fatheraloved each other. It seems that his brother confronted him about it and there was a fight in which his brother died. The whole thing was explained away as a tragic accidenta"and I daresay there was truth in the claima"but your father was sent away. Your mother followed him, though, and they married. Marrying oneas brotheras widow is not expressly forbidden, but it is certainly frowned upon. And this was only a month or so after her bereavement. Both families renounced them.a He was talking of her parents, Susanna thought, her hands balling into fists on the desktop as she stared down at her whitened knuckles.

aAnd one year later she died,a Theodore said. aMy father knew her. He told my mother that they were devoted to each other, Susanna. He also said that you looked like her.a Her mother had died having her. Susanna bit down hard on her upper lip. She had risked all, even scandal and ostracism, only to die in childbed.

And her father had died by his own hand twelve years later when his past finally caught up to him and a malicious woman was out to destroy him. Susanna could only imagine the enormity of the guilt with which he must have lived all the years she had known him. Yet he had always been quietly courteous, gentle, and affectionate.

She looked like her mother.

aMy father confronted Lady Whitleaf after the funeral,a Theodore said. aShe denied that she had ever intended to act with such malicious intent as described in that letter by your hand. He had been presumptuous and familiar with her, she claimed, and she had been about to make a private complaint about him to my fathera"that was all. The matter was dropped, but there was a coolness between my parents and her ever after. My parents believed Osbourneas version.a Susanna spread her hands, palm up, and examined them closely.

aThe third letter was sent on to your grandfather,a Theodore said, aeven though you could not be sent with it. I believe he implemented his own search for you, but you were lost beyond a trace until Whitleaf found you this past summer.a aI was not lost,a she said quietly as she drank her tea, thankful for the hot liquid, aand he did not find me.a aIn a manner of speaking,a he said, smiling. aMay I take you to my mother and Edith in the morning room?a aYes,a she said with a sigh. aTheodore, perhaps I should leave tomorrow and return to Bath so that you may have a quiet family Christmas without feeling obliged to entertain me.a aThat would break Edithas heart,a he said, aand hurt my mother. And I would not be happy about it either. We have other guests coming later today, remember.a aAll the more reason for me to leave,a she said, frowning.

aNot so.a He stood in front of the fire, lifted onto the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, and then rocked back on his heels again. aI am expecting Colonel and Mrs. Osbourne and the Reverend Clapton from Gloucesters.h.i.+rea"your two grandfathers and your paternal grandmother.a Susanna stared mutely at him.

aMy mother suggested it,a he said, aas soon as you wrote back to say you would come. I wrote to them the same day and they did not hesitate. They are coming to meet you.a She swallowed and heard a gurgle in her throat. She pushed her cup and saucer aside and curled her fingers into her palms to find them clammy.

aMy grandparents?a she half whispered.

aLord,a he said, lifting onto the b.a.l.l.s of his feet again, aI donat know if I have done the right thing, Susanna. But I know my father would have done all he could for you, and my mother always loved you almost as if you were her own. I thought it only right to do more or less what your father wanted mine to doa"except that I am bringing your grandparents to you rather than sending you to them.a She was not all alone in the world. She had three grandparents and perhaps other relatives. She had read it in both her fatheras letters, yet somehow the knowledge had not fully lodged itself in her brain until now.

She had relatives, and they were coming here to Fincham Manor.

Today.

Susanna lurched to her feet, pus.h.i.+ng her chair away with the backs of her knees as she did so.

aI have to get out,a she said.

aOut?a Theodoreas rather bushy eyebrows drew together until they almost met over the bridge of his nose.

aOut of doors,a she said, feeling as if she were about to suffocate.

aYou donat mean home to Bath?a he said. aYou are not going to leave, Susanna? Run away again?a What did she mean? She scarcely knew. Her mind felt as if it were close to bursting with all it had been forced to take in during the past hour or so.

She drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

aI just need to walk outside for a while, Theodore,a she said. aI need fresh air. Will you mind? Will it seem terribly rude? I do not mean to run away.a aIall come with you,a he said, still frowning. aOr perhaps Edith or my mothera"a But she held up a hand.

aNo,a she said. aI would rather be alone. I need to sort out my thoughts.a aAh,a he said. aTake all the time you need, then, Susanna. And then come back and get warm and enjoy Christmas with us. We will do all in our power to see that you do.a aThank you.a She hurried upstairs to fetch her cloak and bonnet and gloves and don her warm half-boots, vastly relieved when she did not pa.s.s anyone on the way to her room. If only she could get back downstairs and outsidea But she was not so fortunate this time.

Theodore was standing in the hall as she came downstairs, probably waiting to see her on her way. A newly arrived visitor was talking with him there. For only a fraction of a second did Susanna think that perhaps this was one of the expected houseguests. But then, almost simultaneously, she realized that the visitor, broad-shouldered in his many-caped greatcoat, was a young man and that he was Viscount Whitleaf.

He looked up at the same moment and their eyes met.

She was flooded with such a powerful and unexpected longing that she only just found the strength not to dash down the remaining stairs and hurl herself into his arms.

aMiss...o...b..urne,a he said.

aLord Whitleaf.a She came slowly downward. She wondered if he had known she was coming to Fincham Manor.

aSusanna is going out for a walk,a Theodore said. aI have offered to accompany her, but she needs to be alone. She has just been reading the letter her father wrote her on the last day of his life. Do go without further ado if you wish, Susanna. Iall take Whitleaf in to see my mother. He has an invitation to extend.a aLater, Theo, if it is all the same to you,a the viscount said without taking his eyes off Susanna. aI will go back outside with Miss...o...b..urnea"if she will accept my company.a The thought of his mothera"of what his mother had donea"flashed through her mind, but he was not his mother. And suddenly she could not bear the thought of going out alone, of leaving him behind.

aThank you,a she said, and turned to leave the house without looking back.

22.

aOne could say without too much exaggeration,a Peter had remarked just last evening to Bertie Lamb, his favorite brother-in-law, Amyas husband, athat the house is packed to the rafters and bulging at the seams.a The crowd was made up mostly of relatives and relatives of relativesa"and of course the Flynn-Posys, who were not related to anyone else there but who obviously had hopes of rectifying that situation at some time in the foreseeable future. Arabella Flynn-Posy was seventeen years old and dark-haired and dark-eyed and remarkably pretty despite a mouth that had a tendency to turn sulky at the slightest provocation. His mother adored hera"and her mother adored him. An imbecile with a pea for a brain would have understood their intentions.

aBut your mother is ecstatic,a Bertie had said. aSo are your sisters. And I am partial to a crowd myself, I must admit. Jolly good show about the ball, old chapa"it will brighten things up around here.a His mother was, of course, not ecstatic about that one thing, Peter knew. But he had impulsively decided that he wanted to invite all his neighbors to a grand Christmas celebration at Sidley Park, and he had gone ahead and invited them all to a ball on the evening of Christmas Day without consulting anyone except his cook and his butler and his housekeeper, who would be directly involved in the preparationsa"and who were now das.h.i.+ng about in transports of delight at the prospect of a Sidley ball.

His mother had been the last to be told.

Well, no, not quite the last.

He still had not been to Fincham Manor when he told her. It really would be too bad if the Markhams were unable or unwilling to attend the ball since he would quite readily admit in the privacy of his own mind that the whole thing had been arranged for them. Well, not them precisely.

The ball was for Susanna.

Love did not die very quickly, he had discovered during the intervening weeks. It did not even fade quicklya"or at all. And it was a deuced depressing thing if the truth were known. His only hope, he had tried to tell himself since learning that she was indeed to come to Fincham, was to stay away from her and trust they did not inadvertently run into each other over the holiday.

So what had he done to put that very sensible decision into effect? He had arranged his first-ever ball at Sidley for her, that was what. And now he had driven himself over to Fincham to extend the invitationa"in person, of course, because he knew she must have arrived by now.

And now here he was a mere few minutes later, hurrying out of the house faster than he had hurried in out of the cold, his invitation having been mentioned to Theo but nota"as was right and propera"delivered formally to Lady Markham and to Edith. But that could wait. So could warming his hands and his feet and the rest of his person.

Susanna needed hima"or so he told himself.

She had changed in the course of a few weeks. Her face looked pinched and pale, her eyes dark-shadowed in contrast. And it seemed to him that the changes went beyond what the distress of the morning must have brought her.

He caught up to her on the terrace outside and took her firmly by the arm. She was looking about as if she did not quite know in which direction she wanted to walk.