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 circ.u.mstances 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 houras time she would think them, perhaps. Tonight she would think them, and next week, and next month. But nowa aI shall be making an early start for London in the morning,a he said as they turned onto Sutton Street and the school came into sight.
aYes,a she said. aThere cannot be much to keep a visitor in Bath, especially at this time of year.a aI have spent a pleasant few days here, though,a he said.
aI am glad.a They spoke to each other like cheerful, polite strangers.
aIt has been good to see you again,a he said.
aYes.a aPerhaps,a he said, awe will meet again sometime.a aYes, that would be pleasant.a Their footsteps slowed and then stopped altogether before they turned onto Daniel Street.
aSusanna,a he said, his hand covering hers on his arm, though he did not turn his head to look down at her. aI 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 l.u.s.tful 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 thataWell. Was there ever a more muddled monologue, and just at the time when I most wanted to be eloquent and say something memorable?a aOh, Peter,a she said, clinging to his arm, aI 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.a aBut not enough to marry me?a he asked her, still not looking at her.
aNo.a It was easier just to say no than try to explaina"it was impossible, anyway, to explain all her reasons. aI do thank you, but no, we would not suit.a aNo,a he said softly, aI suppose not. I will leave you here, then.a aYes.a 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 hersa"and smiled.
aAn already glorious November day has seemed warmer and brighter because of your presence in it,a he said, misquoting his very first words to her. aThank you, Susanna.a And so he drew a smile from her even though her heart was breaking.
aFoolish,a she said. aAh, foolish.a And somehow they both laughed.
aGood-bye, Peter,a 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.
aOh, Miss...o...b..urne,a she cried, all excitement, awe 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.a aOf course. I can hardly wait. Lead the way, then, Mary,a Susanna said, smiling brightly as she pulled loose the ribbons of her bonnet. aHave you been working all afternoon? How splendid of you.a I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you.
abefore I leavea And now he was gone.
20.
Peter went straight from Bath to Sidley Parka"to stay.
Will you do one thing for me? And this was it. She might never know he had done as she asked, and how his coming here could benefit her anyway he did not know. But here he was. He loved her, and so he had honored her final request.
He hoped that love would go away again as suddenly as it had come. He did not like the feeling at all. It was a dashed miserable thing, if the truth were known.
His mother was ecstatic to see him. She scarcely stopped talking about Christmas, which would be absolutely perfect now that he was home to enjoy all that she had planned for him. Four of his sistersa"Barbara, Doris, Amy, and Belindaa"were to come to Sidley Park for Christmas, all except Josephine, in fact, the middle one in age, who lived in Scotland with her husband and his family. And of course the presence of four sisters was going to mean too the presence of their spouses and childrena"nine of the latter among the four of them. And because it was Christmas, numbers of their in-laws of all ages had been invited too. None of his unclesa"he had made himself clear to them five years ago, though in the intervening years since he had seen them occasionally in London and learned to be cordial with them.
And of course the Flynn-Posys were coming for Christmas.
Well, he would endure it. He would even enjoy it. He would establish himself as host.
His mother took him into the dining room the day after his arrival and explained to him all that she planned to have done in there for his comfort and delight.
aIall think about it, Mama,a he said. aI may have some ideas of my own.a aBut of course, my love,a she said, beaming happily at him. aWhatever you want provided it will not ruin the overall effect of what I have planned. How lovely it is to have you home again.a He left it at that. It had never been easy to talk to his mothera"it had always seemed something akin to dashing oneas brains against a rock.
Will you talk to your mother, Peter? Really talk?aTell her who you are. Perhaps she has been so intent upon loving you all your life that really she does not know you at all. Perhapsa"probablya"she does not know your dreams.
He had never really talked to his mother, or she to him. He had confronted her once, of coursea"ghastly memorya"but they had both been horribly upset at the time, and they had not used the opportunity to open their hearts to each other, to establish a new and equal relationship of adult mother and adult son.
That would change. He would talk to her. He would hold firm against her iron will. It just seemed somewhat absurd that the provocation was probably going to be a lavender dining room.
He spent a good deal of the time before Christmas away from the house. He liked to go and sit in the dower house, sometimes for hours on end, lighting a fire in the sitting room and enjoying the peace he found there. He had always loved the house, and it had always been well kept even though it had been inhabited during his lifetime only by the girlsa governesses and the tutors he had had before going away to school and sometimes during school holidays. It was a small manor in its own right and was set in the middle of a pretty garden in a secluded corner of the park.
It would, in fact, be the ideal home for his mothera He visited his neighbors again. And he called on Theo.
aI must thank you, by the way,a Theo said as they sat in his library sipping brandy, afor taking Susanna Osbourne to call on my mother and Edith in Bath. They both wrote to tell me all about it the very next day. I suppose because I was away at school at the time of Osbourneas death and Susannaas disappearance, I did not realize quite how upsetting it all was for them. My mother has been thinking all these years that she must be dead.a aAre the letters still in existence?a Peter asked.
aYes, indeed,a Theo said, stretching out his booted feet to the blaze in the hearth. aThey were at the back of the safe in Osbourneas old office where I never looka"it is stuffed with old papers that I must go through one of these days. I had never even read the letter Osbourne wrote my father until I found both letters after my mother wrote. Susannaas is still sealed. I suppose I ought to send it on to her even though my mother seems to think she is not interested in seeing it. Queer, that.a aI think it is more that she is afraid to read it,a Peter said.
aEh?a Theo said, giving a log a shove farther onto the fire with the toe of one boot. aWhat would she be afraid of? Ghosts? I suppose it might put the wind up someone, though, to see a letter written more than a decade ago in the hand of a dead man.a aI think she is afraid of what she will find there,a Peter said. aSometimes it seems better not to know what one thought forever lost in the past. But I do wonder if the not knowing will fester in her now that she knows about the letter. Does she know it still exists?a aNot unless my mother has told her,a Theo said. aSometimes I wish I had a secretary of my own. Writing letters is not my favorite occupation. I suppose I must write one, though. I can hardly just bundle up her fatheras and send it off to her without comment, can I?a aIs there likely to be something in your fatheras letter that would not be in in hers?a Peter asked. aRemember that hers was written to a twelve-year-old.a Theo raised his eyebrows and considered the question as he gazed into the fire and took two more sips from his gla.s.s. Then he looked at Peter.
aI say, Whitleaf,a he said, awhat the devil is your interest in all this?a aJust that,a Peter said. aInterest.a aYou told me you had met Susanna during the summer,a Theo said. aAnd then you were with her in Bath of all places, at a concert in Bath Abbey, and then in Sydney Gardens, and then at Edithas. She isnat your mistress by any chance, is she? Morley wonat like it if you took your mistress to call on him and Edith.a But he chose to find the mental picture amusing, and first chuckled and then threw back his head and laughed outright.
aHe would probably have a fit of the vapors,a he said. aLord knows what Edith sees in him, but it was a love match.a aSusanna is not my mistress,a Peter said, without joining in the laughter. aAnd I would thank you, Theo, for not making that suggestion ever again. I offered her marriage, and she refused me.a aEh?a Theo frowned. aWhy the devil? She is a schoolteacher, isnat she? And last time I looked you were a viscount. It would be a brilliant match for her, wouldnat it? And thatas a colossal understatement.a Peter did not answer the question.
aI think she needs to know the full truth,a he said. aEverything you know and everything your mother knows and everything both letters can tell her. It may be upsetting for her, but I donat think she will be able to put the past fully behind her until she knows all there is to know. He was all she had, Theo, and he deliberately put a bullet through his brain.a aWell, yes,a Theo said. aPoor devil. I say, I wonder if she would like to come here for Christmas. Iall wager Edith would be ecstatic, and I think my mother would be pleased tooa"she is coming home the day after tomorrow, by the way. Iall see what she says. Come to think of it, though, I have a hankering to see Susanna again myself. I used to be rather fond of her. I can remember teaching her to row a boat one summer. She was d.a.m.ned good at it too for all she was just a little bit of a thing with sticks for arms and a shock of red hair. Does she still have the hair?a aIt is auburn,a Peter said.
He had not been trying to lead Theo in the direction of inviting her to Fincham. He had been thinking more of Theoas going down to Bath, taking Lady Markham with him and both letters so that the two of them could spend some time with her and help her deal with the past.
aYou will invite her?a he asked.
Theo looked at him and chuckled before getting to his feet to fetch the brandy decanter.
aI will indeed,a he said, aand you can decide whether to give Fincham a wide berth over Christmas or haunt it every day. How firmly did she mean no when she said it? And how disappointed were you? They are rhetorical questions, Whitleafa"another fellowas love life is not my concern. But Iall fetch Susanna here if she will come. She may not, of course. It sounds to me as if she is a lady with a mind of her owna"something that showed up when she was twelve years old, I suppose. More brandy?a He held the decanter suspended over Peteras gla.s.s.
aItas dashed good,a Peter said, holding his gla.s.s up. aSmuggled, I suppose?a aIs there any other kind?a Theo asked.
She would say no, Peter thought. Of course she would say no.
There was not even any point in wondering how he would behave if she did come. Would he stay away from Fincham? Or would he haunt it every day?
But he would never know, would he? She would not come.
Eleanor Thompson did indeed join the staff of Miss Martinas school as geography and mathematics teacher. At first Claudia expected that she would come after Christmas, but she was very eager to start immediately and so moved into the school directly from her hotel and began her duties as soon as Claudia had adjusted the timetable and teaching loads.
She proved an instant favorite with the girls and her fellow teachers alike. She was a strict enough disciplinarian, but she also conducted her cla.s.ses with humor and good sense. She was too late to do anything spectaculara"her own worda"for the Christmas concert, like directing a play or a choir or organizing maypole dancing. She would busy herself instead with the less glorious work behind the scenes, she announced the day after her arrival, and she worked during almost every spare moment after that, guiding a group of volunteer girls as they brought alive Mr. Uptonas sketches for the various sets, and as often as not wielding a brush herself.
aAnd to think,a she said with a weary sigh late one evening in Claudiaas sitting room as she rubbed at a stubborn spot of paint on her right forefinger, athat until Christine married Bewcastle and turned all our lives on their collective head I considered that the perfect life was sitting quietly at home in our cottage with an open book in my hand.a aAnd do you still think the same thing?a Susanna asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Eleanor laughed. aJust occasionally,a she admitted. aLike this morning, for example, when Agnes Ryde uttered a c.o.c.kney curse when she could not solve a problem in mathematics and I had to resist the temptation to pretend I did not understand. It does help, I suppose, that Agnes is a favorite of mine, even though I am sure you would tell me, Claudia, that teachers ought not to have favorites. Agnes has character.a aAltogether too much of it at times, I am afraid,a Claudia said ruefully. aBut one cannot help liking the girl.a aShe actually told me yesterday,a Lila said, athat learning to speak correctly by pretending to be a d.u.c.h.ess as I had suggested is fun. She even smiled when she said it. And she c.o.c.ked one haughty eyebrow and presented her hand to me as if she expected me to kiss it.a They all laughed, and Susanna got to her feet to pour them each a second cup of tea.
aDid your letter this morning upset you, Susanna?a Claudia asked after they had all settled again.
At first Susanna had thought it must be from Frances or Anne, but then she had seen that it was addressed in an unfamiliar hand.
aIt came from Lady Markham at Fincham Manor,a she said. aThat is in Hertfordshire, where I grew up,a she added for the benefit of Lila and Eleanor.
aAnd?a Claudia said, her cup suspended halfway to her mouth.
aI have been invited to spend Christmas there,a Susanna said. aEdith and Mr. Morley and their son will be going too. My invitation comes directly from Sir Theodore Markham himself. It is exceedingly kind of him and of Lady Markham, who told him, I suppose, of our meeting in Bath a few weeks ago, but I will say no, of course. I would have written back today if I had not been so busy with drama and a set of essays to mark after cla.s.ses were over.a aSusanna,a Lila said, her voice incredulous, ayou have a chance to spend the holiday with a baronet and his family at a country home, and you are going to say no?a aBut of course,a Susanna said, still smiling. aI had a two-week holiday at the end of August. It would be too, too greedy to ask for another now.a aAnd yet Lila and I will be here over the holiday, as well as Claudia, to look after the girls who will remain,a Eleanor said.
aBut I have no wish to go,a Susanna protested. aI would far rather stay here with all of you.a They talked for a few minutes longer until Eleanor got to her feet and declared cheerfully that she needed her sleep if she was to survive another day as a schoolteacher. Lila left with her. Susanna would have followed them after stacking the dishes neatly on the tray if Claudia had not spoken to her.
aSomething in that letter upset you more than a simple invitation to spend Christmas would have done,a she said. aDo you wish to talk about it, Susanna? But only if you wish.a Susanna stared at her for a moment before sighing and sinking back into her chair.
aI cannot go back to Fincham Manor, Claudia,a she said. aThere are too many unhappy memories a.s.sociated with it.a aAnd it is too close to Sidley Park,a Claudia said. It was not a question.
aYes.a Susanna looked down at her hands.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Viscount Whitleafas name had not been spoken between them since the afternoon when Susanna had said good-bye to him. The pain had been too intense to share with even the dearest of friends, and Claudia, as usual, had sensed and respected that fact.
aIs it perhaps necessary that you go back?a Claudia asked, breaking the silence. aNow that the past has been raked up again, whether you wished it to be or not, ought you perhaps to put it properly to rest this time?a Susanna lifted her eyes to gaze into the dying embers of the fire.
aThere were letters,a she said. aI did not tell you that after my visit to Laura Place, did I? My father wrote two before he dieda"one to Sir Charles Markham and one to me. They are both still in a safe at Fincham. Theodore asked Lady Markham to inform me that he will send me mine if I wish, but that he strongly recommends that I go to Fincham to see both letters and to speak with him.a aOh, Susanna!a Claudia exclaimed. aWhat a shock it must have been for youa"but what a delightful onea"to discover that your father wrote to you after all before taking his life. And how exciting to find out today that the letter still exists! Do you not ache to read it? I will send you there tomorrow if you wish so that you will not have to wait one day longer than necessary.a aI do not want to see it,a Susanna said.
Claudia stared at her and raised her eyebrows.
aI know why he killed himself,a Susanna said, aand I cannot bear to read what he thought suitable for a twelve-year-oldas eyes. He loved Viscountess Whitleaf, Claudia, but she was cruel to him and broke his heart. Lady Markham told me a few weeks ago that there was something shameful in his past that was about to expose him to disgrace and dismissal and poverty, but I do not believe it. I know the truth. Viscountess Whitleaf killed my father as surely as if she had pulled the trigger herself. Or it could be said that his own weakness in being unable to live on with a broken heart was what killed him.a There. She had never said it aloud before. She had tried not even to think ita"that one person could wield such emotional power over another, and that the other could not find the strength of character or will to fight back. She had seen them together. She had heard them. She knew. She had always known.
Her father had left her, abandoned her forever, because he had not been able to live without the love of a cruel woman who did not care the snap of two fingers for hima"and those had been the viscountessas own words.
It was no wonder Susanna had cringed from the name Whitleaf on that country lane near Barclay Court during the summer.
aOh, Susanna,a Claudia said, aViscountess Whitleaf of all people? You poor dear.a aYou can see now why I want nothing to do with any of it,a Susanna said. aOr with him.a Claudia sighed. aWhy do we persist in believing that we can control our lives provided we work hard and live decently and mind our own business?a she said. aYou really do not deserve any of this now. You did not deserve any of it when you were twelve either. But here you are stuck with it.a aNo, I am not,a Susanna said. aIt is all history. The present is what matters. And I have my life and my friends here in the present and am quite happy, Claudia. I am.a aExcept,a Claudia said, athat the sunshine has gone out of you, Susanna.a They stared at each other.
aPerhaps no one else has even noticed,a Claudia continued. aYou are as energetic and as cheerful and as busy as ever. You smile and laugh as much as you ever did. But I have known you a long time, and I love you as if you were my younger sistera"and I know that the sun has stopped shining in your life.a Susanna closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again.
aAll I need is time,a she said. aI will prove that a broken heart can mend, Claudia, and that life is always worth living. I need a little more time, that is all.a It was pointless, she supposed, to deny to Claudiaa"or herselfa"that her heart was broken. Sometimes she found herself wondering if she would find the strength to refuse that marriage offer if it were made now. It was a good thing there was no danger of any such thing happening. All other considerations asidea"and there were many of thema"she could never marry the son of Viscountess Whitleaf.
aI am about to offer some unwanted advice,a Claudia said, asomething schoolteachers excel at, alas. Accept your invitation. Go to Fincham Manor for Christmas. Hear what Sir Theodore Markham has to say. Read your lettera"and the other one too if he renews his offer to show it to you. Know the truth in your fatheras own wordsa"know it from Sir Theodoreas point of view. You already believe you know the worst, and so nothing can come as a terrible shock to you. See the place you fled eleven years ago and lay some ghosts to rest. As for Viscount Whitleaf and his mothera"see them too if you will and if the opportunity presents itself, or avoid seeing them if you so choose. But deal with it all, Susanna. Deal with it and move on so that the sun can shine in you again.a aI feel,a Susanna said, aas if a wound had been ripped open during the summer and then other wounds inflicted on top of it. A few times since then it has seemed that they have filmed over only to be torn open again. They have been healing now, Claudia. They really have. I do not wantaI cannot bearaa aBut your letter this morning exposed the wound again,a Claudia pointed out. aFor how long will it fester, Susanna, now that you know your father spoke to you before he dieda"but you refuse to listen? And when will the hurt be renewed yet again if you ignore it now?a aI could have Theodore send the letter here,a Susanna said.
aYou could, yes,a Claudia agreed. It seemed that she would say more, but she closed her mouth.
aIt is late,a Susanna said, glancing at the clock on the mantel, aand I am so weary. You must be too.a aI am indeed,a Claudia said, getting to her feet. aAnd now I suspect I have doomed you to a sleepless night, Susanna. But I believe you would have had one anyway after receiving that letter. It is strange, is it not, how one event can be the innocent cause of another quite unrelated to it? We were both elated when Anne arrived back from Wales in August just in time for you to go to Barclay Court with Frances and the earl. If she had been even one day later, none of all this would have happened. But then, perhaps it would have found a way to happen anyway. Perhaps it is impossible to avoid our own fate. I must be tired. I am talking nonsense.a Susanna left the room after saying good night, and climbed the stairs to her own room. She was in bed a few minutes later, huddled beneath the bedcovers against the chill of the night. But sleep did indeed evade her for a long time.
If only Anne had not come home until a day later. If only the d.u.c.h.ess of Bewcastle and Viscountess Ravensberg had not planned a wedding breakfast for Anne and Mr. Butler here in Bath. If only she had not gone to Bath Abbey for that evening concert and so seen Lady Markham and Edith again. If only she had never known that her father had written her a letter.
And if only Claudia had agreed with her decision to write back to Theodore tomorrow refusing his invitation and even declining his offer to send her fatheras letter.
Why did she not want to read that letter? The question woke her up fully again just when she was starting to feel drowsy.
Did she want to turn her back on her father as he had turned his on her? Was it a type of revenge for the suffering he had caused her? Did she want to hurt him even though he was not alive to feel the pain?
Papa, she thought, turning her face into her pillow.
She had not even thought of him by that name for years and years.
And finally, just before she fell asleep at last, she realized that in truth she had no choice. Having Theodore send the letter here might satisfy an empty craving within her, though she doubted even that. But there were other things to know, places to see, people to talk with.
She had to go back.
She had to hear it all, see it all, read it all.
Perhaps it could all be done without her ever having to set eyes upon Viscount Whitleaf. She had seen him only once during her childhood, after all.
And if she did by some chance see him again, well thenaBut her mind could not cope with that possibility. One thing at a time.
Tonight it was enough to know that she was going to go back. Enough to fill her with dread.
And yet, the decision made, she slept.
21.
Susanna arrived at Fincham Manor very late in the afternoon three days before Christmas, having traveled post. She had left Bath early on the morning following the Christmas concert and all the other busy activities that came with the end of term. She was tired even before she started the journey. She was exhausted by the time it ended.
The fact that she had dreaded coming did not help, of course.
She had wondered how it would feel to step into the house again after all these years. When she had left it eleven years ago, her father had just killed himself and she had just heard Lady Markham describe her as a burden. She had been running away.
But though it all looked startlingly familiar, it also seemed like a place she must have visited during another lifetime. She felt no great emotional connection with it.