Pa.s.sion flared between them, and she moaned at his touch as his hand came beneath her cloak to caress her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to trace the hollow of her waist, the flare of a hip. She kissed him back with a sort of wild abandon, and heat seared them both.
But it was not an entirely mindless embrace. They were at the center of a maze in the middle of a probably deserted park. But it was, nevertheless, possible that they could be interrupted at any moment. And there was more than just that. They had behaved indiscreetly and unwisely at Barclay Court, and they had both suffered as a result.
When she drew back her head, touched her forehead to his, and closed her eyes, he withdrew his hand from inside her cloak and made no attempt to continue the embrace.
aSusanna,a he said after a few moments, aI wish you would reconsidera"a But she set two fingers against his lips and lifted her forehead away from his to look into his eyes. They gazed back into her own, darkly violet in the sunlight. He did not attempt to finish what he had begun to say.
aDonat look at me like that,a she whispered.
aLike what?a He took her by the wrist and moved her hand away from his mouth.
aWith pity and compa.s.sion in your eyes.a She was suddenly and inexplicably angry as she drew free of him and jumped to her feet. aYou are forever wanting to give, to comfort, to protect. Do you never want to take, to demand, to a.s.sert your own wishes? I do not need your pity.a And what on earth was she talking about? She turned her back on him, took a few steps away to the other side of the clearing at the center of the maze.
His silence was as accusing as words. She knew she had hurt him, but she was powerless now to unsay the words.
aShould I take you again here, then, to slake my desirea"but by force this time?a he asked her, his voice horribly quieta"why did he not rage at her? aShould I demand that you marry me so that my honor can be restored? Should I a.s.sert myself as a man and a wealthy, t.i.tled man at that and take whatever my heart desires from all who stand in my way? Especially women? Is that what you want of me, Susanna? I did not understand. I am sorrya"I cannot be such a man.a aOh, Peter.a She turned to look at him. He was still sitting on the seat, his shoulders slightly slumped, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. aI did not mean it that way.a aWhat did you mean, then?a he asked.
She opened her mouth and drew breath and then could not think of anything to say. She did not know quite what she had meant. She had told him last night that he needed to learn to like himself. That had not been quite it either. And she had once told him that he needed a dragon to slay. She was not even sure what she had meant by that.
She wanted him toa To move heaven and earth.
For her. For himself.
She wanted him to love her.
How foolish! As if that would make any difference to anything.
aYou cannot answer, can you?a he said. aBecause you did mean what you said. I think perhaps I do like myself well enough. It is you who do not.a But he held up a staying hand and smiled crookedly as she opened her mouth and drew breath to speak again.
aEnough!a he said. aI think you must be a very good teacher indeed, Susanna Osbourne. I have never done as much soul-searching as I have since I met you. I used to think I was a pretty cheerful, uncomplicated fellow. Now I feel rather as if I had been taken apart at the seams and st.i.tched together again with some of my stuffing left out.a Despite herself her mouth quirked at the corners and drew up into a smile.
aThen I am definitely not a good teacher,a she said. aBut you are a good man, Peter. You are. It is just thataa He raised his eyebrows.
aI am not only a woman,a she said. aI am a person. All women are persons. If we are weak and dependent upon men, it is because we have allowed men to mold us into those images. Perhaps it makes men feel good and strong to see us that way. And perhaps most women are happy to be seen thus. Perhaps society works reasonably well because both men and women are happy with the roles our society has given them to play. But I was thrown out on my own early in life. I will never say it was a good thing that happened to me, but I am grateful that circ.u.mstances have forced me to live outside the mold. I would rather be a complete person than just a woman even if I must be alone as a result.a aYou do not need to be alone,a he said.
aNo.a She smiled at him. aYou would marry me and support and protect me for the rest of my life. And so we move full circle. I am sorry, Peter. I did not mean to deliver such a pompous speech. I did not even know I believed those things until I heard them come out of my mouth. But I do believe them.a aIt is as I thought, then,a he said, getting to his feet and handing her her bonnet. aYou are happier without me. It is a humbling reality.a And she could not now contradict him, could she?
She took her bonnet and busied herself with putting it back on and tying the ribbons beneath her chin.
aWill you do one thing for me?a she asked him.
aWhat?a he asked her.
She looked into his eyes.
aWhen you go home to Sidley Park for Christmas,a she said, awill you stay there? Make it your home and your life?a She was appalled suddenly by her presumption.
aAnd marry Miss Flynn-Posy too?a His smile was crooked.
aIf you decide that you wish to marry her, yes,a she said. aWill you talk to your mother, Peter? Really talk?a aThrow my weight around? Lay down the law?a he said. aLeave misery in my wake?a aTell her who you are,a she said. aPerhaps 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.a She felt horribly embarra.s.sed when he did not immediately reply. How dared she interfere in his life this way? Even when guiding and advising the girls at school about their various problems and about their futures, she was careful never to be as dogmatic as she had just been.
aI am sorry,a she said, aI have no righta"a aAnd will you do one last thing for me?a he asked her.
Reality smote her like a fist to the stomach. One last thing. This time tomorrow he would be long gone. He would be only a memory and not even the purely happy one she had persuaded herself earlier in the afternoon he would be. The last several minutes had destroyed that possibility. She looked at him in inquiry.
aWill you allow me to take you to meet Lady Markham and Edith?a he asked her.
aNow?a she said.
aWhy not?a he asked her. aLawrence Morley, Edithas husband, has taken lodgings on Laura Place, only a stoneas throw away. I promised to call there before leaving Bath. And I promised Edith that I would ask you if she may call on you or if you will call on her.a She shook her head.
aDo consider,a he said. aI do not know if it is my place to tell you this, but there really were letters, you knowa"to Lord Markham and to you.a There was a coldness about her head and in her nostrils.
aLetters?a Somehow no sound came out with the word.
aFrom your father.a He took one step closer and possessed himself of both her hands, which he held very tightly. aI have no idea if they were kept, Susanna, or what their contents were. But ought you not at least to see Lady Markham?a There had been lettersa"one of them for her.
Her father had written her a letter!
Disclosing what? What had the letter to Lord Markham disclosed?
But as quickly as shock had come, panic followed on its heels.
aIt would be as well if they have been destroyed,a she said, pulling her hands free again and going back to the seat to rescue her gloves. aThere is no point in trying to go back after all these years to rake up an old unhappiness that drove a man to his death.a She fumbled to pull on the gloves. aIt can only cause more unhappiness for the living.a aHave you ever not been back there, Susanna?a he asked.
He did not explain his meaning. He did not have to. Of course she had never let go of the past. How could she? Those things had happened and her suffering had been dreadful. The past was a part of her. But she had moved beyond it. She lived a life that was secure and meaningful and happy when compared to the lives of many thousands of other people. Nothing could be served by going back. It was too late.
aWilliam Osbourne wanted to be heard,a he said. aHe had something to say.a aThen he should have said it,a she said, whirling about to face him, ato Lord Markham and to me. He said precious little to me in twelve years. He would not even talk about my mother, who was a yawning emptiness in my life. He might have spoken to me instead of killing himself. He might have loved me instead of seeking the comfort of death.a aYou loved him,a he said softly.
aOf course I loved him.a aThen forgive him,a he said.
aWhy?a She was swiping angrily at the tears that were spilling from her eyes, her back toward him.
aIt is what love does,a he said.
She laugheda"a shaky, pathetic sound.
aAll the time,a he said. aAll the time.a If he just knew. If he just knew.
aVery well.a She spun around to face him. aLet us go, then. Take me to them. Let us ask about the lettersa"and their contents. But know in advance, Lord Whitleaf, that it may be a Pandoraas box that will be opened, that once it is open it will be impossible to close it again.a aBut this does not concern me,a he said. aI believe it is something you need to do for yourself. The letters may not even still exist, Susanna, and yours may never have been opened before it was destroyed. It is just that I think you ought to meet Lady Markham and Edith again. You need to give them a chancea"the chance you believe your father denied you.a She stared at him and then nodded curtly.
aLet us go, then,a she said.
aIf we can find our way out of this maze,a he said, his eyes suddenly softening into a smile.
aNow I really, really wish we could be lost here forever,a she told him, smiling ruefully despite herself.
aMe too,a he agreed. aWe should have gone and built a cabin on the top of Mount Snowdon when we had a chance, Susanna.a He offered her his arm and she took it.
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 d.a.m.nedest 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 G.o.d, 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 meta"and he had met a large number just in the five years since reaching his majoritya"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.
aThis is the house,a 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 Susannaas 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 peoplea"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.
aYou are Susanna,a she said. aOh, 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.a She stretched out both her hands. aOh, just look at you. Lawrence, dearest, this is the Susanna Osbourne we were telling you about at breakfast.a Susanna hesitated before placing her hands in Edithas, 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.
aAll these years,a she said when Edith stepped back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, aI have feared that you were dead, Susanna.a aNo,a Susanna said, aI did not die.a aMiss...o...b..urne, Lord Whitleaf,a Mr. Morley said, ado come and have a seat closer to the fire. You must have walked herea"I have not heard a carriage in the street.a aWe have been strolling in Sydney Gardens,a Peter explained as they all sat. aIt is a beautiful day.a aFor November, yes,a Morley agreed, athough it is a little nippy even so, I daresay. You were dressed warmly, I trust, Miss...o...b..urne? You left your outdoor garments downstairs?a aI did, sir.a She smiled. aMy cloak and gloves are warm enough for even the coldest day.a aYou were wise to wear them today, then,a he said. aEdith 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.a aNo, I did not,a Susanna said, looking at Edith. aHow lovely for you.a aWe have a son,a Edith said with a smile. aHe is quite adorable, is he not, dearest? He looks like his papa.a 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.
aSusanna,a Edith said at last, ado you live in Bath? Where is your house?a aI teach and live at Miss Martinas School for Girls on Daniel Street,a Susanna said. aI teach writing and penmanship and games among other things.a aGames?a Morley said. aI hope nothing too strenuous, Miss...o...b..urne. 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.a aYou teach,a Lady Markham said before Susanna could replya"and while Peter was still entertaining amused memories of her rowing and flushed and laughing in the boat races at Barclay Court. aHowever did that come about, Susanna?a aI went to London,a she explained, aand registered at an employment agency. But I was fortunate enough to be singled out and sent as a charity pupil to Miss Martinas school here. I was a pupil until I was eighteen, and then I was offered a position as junior teacher.a aYou went to London,a Lady Markham said. aBut how did you get there, Susanna? You were a child. And we checked all the stagecoach stops for miles in every direction.a aI went into my fatheras room,a Susanna said. aThere 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.a aIt is to be hoped, Miss...o...b..urne,a Morley said, athat 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.a aI do not believe I ever did sit on hay, sir,a she said.
aOh, Susanna,a Lady Markham said, setting her cup and saucer down on her empty plate, awhy 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 youa"or so I thought.a 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.
aAs you just observed, maaam,a she said, aI 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. Ia"a aThe church must be firm on such matters of principle,a Morley said, aregrettable asa"a aDearest,a Edith said, interrupting, aI am very much afraid that Jamie might have awoken and will be wanting one of us even though Nurse is with him.a He jumped to his feet. aI shall go to him immediately,a he said, aif you will excuse me, Miss...o...b..urne, Lord Whitleaf, Mama-in-law. But I am sure you all will excuse the natural anxieties of a new father.a aThank you, Lawrence,a Edith said. aYou are very good.a Had the circ.u.mstances 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 Susannaas distressa"and that of his lifelong neighbors too.
aMarkham would not let youa"or even mea"see your papa,a Lady Markham said after Morley had closed the door behind him, abecauseawellaa aI understand,a Susanna said. aHe 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.a aYou did not even say good-bye to me,a Edith said. aFirst 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 n.o.body could find you. Oh, I am sorry.a She leaned back in her chair. aYour 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 wisha"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 girlsa school. I am quite sure you must be a good teacher.a 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 Susannaas 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 behinda"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 Pandoraas 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 pa.s.sed.
The moment for any meaningful truth to be spoken seemed almost to have pa.s.sed 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 Markhamas 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.
aI was telling Miss...o...b..urne a short while ago, maaam,a he said into a momentary lull in the conversation, aabout the letters discovered inside a ledger in Mr. Osbourneas desk after his death.a Three pairs of eyes turned upon him in something that looked like reproach. Then Susanna closed hers briefly.
aYes,a Lady Markham said. aThere were two, one addressed to Markham and one to Susanna.a aWhat did he say?a Susanna asked, her voice terribly strained. aDid he explain why he did it?a aI believe he did,a Lady Markham said while Edith set down her plate. aIt was addressed to Lord Markham, you must understand, Susanna, not to me. Ia"wea"will always remember your father with respect and even affection. He was a good and efficient secretary.a aBut you did see the letter?a Susanna asked.
aYes,a Lady Markham admitted, aI believe I did.a aWhat did it say?a Susanna asked. aPlease tell me.a Something struck Peter suddenly and he got to his feet.
aPerhaps,a he said, ayou 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...o...b..urnea"a But Lady Markham had raised one staying hand and he sat again.
aNo,a she said, her voice sounding weary. aThere is no need to go. There was something in your fatheras 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.a 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 ita"especially when the man had lived and worked and shot himself in oneas own home?
aAnd my letter?a Susanna asked softly.
aTo my knowledge it was not opened,a Lady Markham said.
aWas it destroyed?a Susanna asked.
aI do not know.a Lady Markham blinked rapidly. aI cannot imagine Markham burning it, but I do not know.a aPerhaps Theo knows, Mama,a Edith suggested. aOh, surely it is still in existence.a aIt is probably as well if it is not,a Susanna said. She got to her feet, and Peter rose too. aIf 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 whoaOh, 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.a aSusanna,a Edith said, jumping up too, ado call on us again. Perhaps we can go walking together or shopping. Perhapsa"a aNo,a Susanna said. aMy 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. IaYou have your husband and son now to occupy your life. We move in different worlds. It would be best to leave it that way.a Edith folded her hands at her waist. She looked hurt.
aI shall write to you,a she said. aI daresay you will be able to find a few spare minutes in which to read a letter.a aThank you.a Susanna gave her a tight smile.
aThis has been a pleasure,a Lady Markham said. aYou 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 Martinas school, Whitleaf?a aI will, maaam,a 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.
aAre you glad you came?a he asked, drawing her arm through his.
She turned her head to look at him briefly.
aYes,a she said. aI 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.a aEven though you never could be?a He chuckled.
aBut I was not asked to be, was I?a 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 fatheras letter to Sir Charles Markham or into the possible continued existence of the letter he had written her.