Simply Magic (22 page)

“Magical?” he said. “No, never.”

He loved her innocent enthusiasm, something the typical young lady of the
ton
soon learned to disguise beneath a fashionable veneer of ennui. And yet there was nothing childlike about Susanna Osbourne. She was all vivid womanhood.

Her attention soon moved, though, from their surroundings to the people who occupied it, and she looked immediately apprehensive.

The audience was impressively large. Its nature was much as Peter had expected, though. Most people were elderly or at least past the first blush of youth. Except for Susanna and Miss Thompson, there was no one here he had known longer than a couple of days. It was the wrong time of year for there to be many visitors. These people would be almost exclusively residents of Bath.

He had met a number of them at the Pump Room this morning during the daily promenade, which he had joined for lack of anything else to do—and because he genuinely liked people no matter what their age or social status. He had aroused a great deal of interest, partly because he was a stranger and partly, he suspected, because he was below the age of forty.

Several of those people greeted him now as he moved along the central aisle closer to the front of the church with his party. Several others looked at him and Miss Osbourne with interest. Others greeted Lady Potford, and she stopped a few times to exchange greetings with acquaintances.

“Oh, there is Mr. Blake,” Susanna said, and smiled more broadly as she raised a hand in greeting, “and Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Do you wish to speak with them?” he asked.

“Maybe later,” she said. “Mr. Blake is the physician who attends the school when anyone is ill. Betsy Reynolds is a day pupil at the school.”

She was holding firmly to his arm, but he suspected that she was enjoying herself.

She
was
a lady, he thought. Her father had been William Osbourne. A mere nobody did not generally rise to the exalted position of secretary to a government minister or take up residence in that minister's country home.

But William Osbourne, for some unknown reason, had put a bullet through his brain.

Peter took a seat next to the aisle. Susanna sat beside him with Miss Thompson beyond her and then Lady Potford. It was a little chilly, but even so he helped Susanna off with her cloak, which he draped over the back of her chair while she arranged her paisley shawl about her shoulders. She was wearing the same green gown she had worn to the assembly, he could see. It was trimmed with the ribbon she had bought at the village shop to which he had escorted her.

For a few moments he was assaulted by nostalgic memories of that fortnight, during which she had so unexpectedly become his friend—before he had spoiled it all by becoming her lover. He could vividly remember her laughing in his curricle and thus revealing the fact that as well as being terrified she was also exhilarated.

She had been so full of surprises during those two weeks. He had come very close to falling in love with her in earnest—something he had not admitted to himself until very recently.

Perhaps fortunately for his peace of mind, the concert began soon after they had seated themselves. There was a full orchestra. More important, there was the great pipe organ, which played several solos and inundated every light-filled space and every shadowed alcove of the Abbey with the music of Handel and Bach.

“You were quite right about the organ,” he said, moving his head closer to Susanna's at the end of one of the pieces.

Her eyes were glowing with happiness.

“This is like a little piece of heaven,” she said.

This.
What did she include in the word? he wondered. But she was quite right. This was easily the best evening he had spent since…Well, since he did not know when. His mind scanned all the evenings he had spent in London before going to Alvesley Park and then slipped back beyond them to a certain evening in Somerset when he had waltzed at a mere country assembly and then taken a stroll along the village street.

Perhaps he really
had
fallen a little in love with her. He hoped not. But he did not know quite how else to describe his relationship with Susanna Osbourne or his feelings for her. It was not just friendship, was it? It was a little deeper than that. And it was not quite being in love either. It was less frivolous than that.

He realized that the orchestra was in the middle of Handel's
Water Music,
but he had no recollection at all of the first half of the performance. He focused his mind on the rest of it.

There were several small interludes during the course of the evening, when the audience could relax for a minute or two and exchange comments on the program. At the end, Peter knew, everyone would be reluctant to go home. Everyone would stand about in groups, talking, for perhaps half an hour before drifting off home. He looked forward to that half hour or so even though he would not wish away the rest of the evening.

But as it happened he was almost the first to leave.

Susanna had turned her head several times during the evening and had sometimes tipped it back to look upward. She was unabashedly admiring her surroundings and looking at her fellow audience members, Peter knew. He supposed that she was storing memories to take back to school with her. She turned her head away from him just before the final organ piece and looked back over her shoulder. It seemed to him that she turned to face the front again in great haste, and he noticed that she gripped the edges of her shawl very tightly with both hands.

He looked back himself, but a large, broad man two rows back was just straightening up after talking with someone next but one to him, and he effectively blocked the view of most of the audience farther back.

Peter turned his attention to a triumphant organ rendition of Bach's
Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring
.

He turned, smiling, to Susanna after the last notes had echoed through the high vaults. She was shivering.

“Are you cold?” he asked, setting a hand over one of her clenched ones—and it was indeed like ice.

“I must leave now,” she said, her teeth chattering. “The concert has gone on longer than I expected. Claudia will be wondering…” She turned her head, and Peter could hear her speaking to Lady Potford above the hubbub of voices that followed the ending of the recital. “I must leave now, ma'am. I am expected back at school. I do thank you for inviting me—and you for suggesting me, Miss Thompson.”

“Oh, but you must not rush away, my dear,” Lady Potford said. “Miss Martin will certainly understand, and I daresay there are no classes tomorrow. I was hoping you and Viscount Whitleaf would come back for some tea.”

But Susanna did not even wait for her to finish speaking. She was drawing her cloak about her and getting to her feet, though her shoulders were hunched over as she did so. She stepped past Peter and hurried along the aisle, her head down.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Thompson said, “whatever has happened to upset her? She appeared to be enj—”

“Pardon me, ma'am,” Peter said, getting to his feet. “I will follow and make sure she gets home safely. Lady Potford, please do take my carriage and instruct my coachman not to wait for me.”

He did not hear her reply. Susanna was already almost out of the Abbey. He hurried after her.

He caught up with her at the outer doors and took her by the elbow.

“Something has happened to upset you,” he said.

“No.” She lifted a smiling face to his. “But I am always anxious when I have been away from the school for any length of time. It does not seem fair. Do not let me take you away early, Lord Whitleaf. I shall walk back alone. I am used to doing so.”

“At night? You most certainly will not walk alone on
this
night,” he said. “Will you not wait for my carriage? It should be here soon.”

She shook her head.

“I must go back,” she said.

“Then I will escort you.” He drew her arm firmly through his.

“Thank you.”

It was all she said for a few minutes as they walked. Actually, he discovered, it was not a cold night, and what little wind there was was behind them.

He wondered what had happened to rob her of her joy in the evening's entertainment. Perhaps, he thought as he walked beside her and looked down at her bowed head, she had started remembering—as he had earlier. For him the memories were uncomfortable and touched upon his honor. For her they must be far worse even than that.

He set one gloved hand over hers on his arm.

“Susanna,” he said, “I must ask you, much as it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie. Did I…
hurt
you in any way at Barclay Court? Not just physically, I mean, though that too, I suppose. Did I?”

Foolish question. Could the answer be anything but
yes
? And could he expect her to say anything but
no
?

“No,” she said. “No, you did not.”

“I have felt dashed guilty,” he told her. “I have never done anything to compare with it in infamy either before or since, I swear. I am not a seducer—or
was
not.”

“You did not seduce me,” she said firmly as they turned to walk across the Pulteney Bridge. “What happened was by mutual consent.”

They were reassuring words, and of course he knew there was truth in them. But they were essentially meaningless words, nonetheless. What else
could
she say? He sighed aloud.

“But it is not good enough,” he said. “Dash it all, it just is not. Will you marry me, Susanna? Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

The words seemed to come out of their own volition. And yet he felt an enormous relief that he had spoken them. They should have been spoken up on that hill. They should have been spoken the next day—he should have hurried over to Barclay Court before she left. He should have followed her to Bath instead of going first to London and then home and then to Alvesley. He should have spoken the words the day before yesterday in the Upper Assembly Rooms.

Will you marry me?

He knew suddenly that he had done the right thing at last, that he had
wanted
to say those words for a long time. He knew that finally he had done the honorable thing, and the thing he wished to do—he
wished
to protect this woman, who had somehow become his very dear friend, perhaps his dearest friend. The fact that she was not with child did not lessen his obligation to her.

She continued walking at his side, their footsteps echoing along the deserted Great Pulteney Street. He began to think she would not answer at all. He even began to wonder if he had asked the question out loud or only in his thoughts.

“No,” she said at last. “No, of course I will not.”

“Why not?” he asked after another short silence while they continued on past Lady Potford's house.

“A better question might be
why,
” she said. “You cannot marry someone simply because you feel guilty.”

Was
that his reason? If he had not dishonored her at Barclay Court, would the idea of marrying her ever have crossed his mind? It was a foolish question, of course. The point was that he
had
dishonored her. And it was surely more than guilt that had impelled him to ask the question.

As they turned into Sutton Street, she laughed softly.

“When you say your prayers tonight, Lord Whitleaf,” she said, “you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.”

“You still believe, then,” he said, curling his fingers around hers, “that I am incapable of any deep emotion?”

“I know you are
not,
” she said. “But I know that kindness is one of your most dominant attributes—that and gallantry to ladies. You cannot—or ought not to—contract a marriage on such things alone. You need to look deeper into your own heart. You need to learn to like yourself too.”

Her words smote him deeply. Despite her denials she had looked at him and seen a man incapable of any deeper feeling than kindness. She did not believe that the offer of his heart was a significant enough gift. But did he believe it? He had not offered his heart, had he?

He had lost all confidence in love several years ago. He had given all the love of his eager young heart to Bertha Grantham and had made a prize idiot of himself as a result.

Was the real problem that he had lost confidence in himself? In his ability to love or be loved? Had he stopped liking himself? He
had
felt like an idiot—a gullible, naïve fool. But did that mean he had stopped
liking
himself?

It was such a novel—and disturbing—thought that he said nothing as they approached the school and their footsteps slowed.

“You must not think you owe me marriage,” she said, her voice gentle now, as if
he
were the one who needed consolation, “just because you believe I was hurt in the summer and imagine that I am lonely and unhappy with my life as it is. Even if all those things were true—which they are not—they are no reason for a marriage. Not on either side. You owe me nothing.”

“I see,” he said as they stopped walking. His mind was paralyzed. He could think of nothing else to say to her. It was actually a relief when the door opened even before he could knock upon it, and the ever-present porter peered out at them.

But he could not let her go this way. He could not say good-bye like this.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “There are no classes, are there?”

“Except the usual games class in the morning,” she said. “I always supervise it out in the meadows unless it is raining.”

“May I see you tomorrow afternoon, then?” he asked her. “We can go walking—perhaps in Sydney Gardens if the weather permits. And perhaps we can go somewhere for tea afterward—somewhere public, of course, so that the proprieties may be observed.”