Simply Magic (7 page)

“Oh, yes,” she said, “but I ached for my mother. I used to weave dreams about her. I could always picture her arms reaching out to me, and I could always hear her voice and smell roses when she was near. But I never could see her face. Is that not strange? Sometimes even the imagination lets one down. How foolish!”

She looked away and fell silent, and it seemed to him that she was suddenly as embarrassed as he had been a couple of minutes ago at making such an admission about the child she had been.

Neither of them said any more on the subject—they were approaching Barclay Court, and Edgecombe and the countess were walking across the lawn before the house to meet them.

But something subtle had changed between them, he sensed.

Perhaps everything.

They had shared something of themselves with each other and he would never be able to return to a relationship of simple banter with her. They had, in other words, taken a step toward friendship with each other—as he had wanted. And yet the realization was slightly unsettling. Banter was safer. So was flirtation.

“Miss Osbourne,” he said as he drew the curricle to a halt just before the others came up to them, “
is
it possible for us to be friends, do you think?”

“But we are to be here for only twelve more days,” she said.

“You brought her back in one piece, I see, Whitleaf,” Edgecombe said, striding up to the vehicle and reaching up a hand to help her down. “Congratulations. Frances would have been upset with you if you had not.”

“And you are not looking nearly as frightened as you were when you left here, Susanna,” the countess said. “Did you enjoy the ride? And your visit?”

Peter declined their invitation to go inside the house for refreshments. He would be expected back at Hareford House, he told them, and left after bidding them all a collective farewell.

This time, he noticed, Susanna Osbourne did not hurry into the house without a backward glance. She stood with the other two to watch him on his way.

He had also noticed she had not said that it was impossible for them to be friends.

Or that it would be possible either.

It struck him as he drove away that perhaps it would be better if she
had
protested. He was not at all sure that friendship was safe.

         

It was a surprise to Susanna to discover that she had actually enjoyed the afternoon—not just the part of it she had spent with Miss Honeydew, but all of it.

She was even more surprised to discover that she actually rather liked Viscount Whitleaf. He might be a basically shallow man who liked nothing better than to flirt with every woman he set eyes upon, but he also had a good sense of humor. More important, he was definitely a kind man—and not totally indolent either. He had actually mended Miss Honeydew's fence and cleaned out her old stable. He had taken her bad-tempered little dog for a walk. He had been careful not to embarrass her when he had discovered her asleep in her chair while Susanna was still reading to her. And then, at her urging, he had eaten three of the cakes she called her housekeeper's specialty even though it must have been clear to him after the first bite that they were undercooked and doughy at the center.

She had discovered when she had found herself quite unable to resist asking him about his childhood, just as if she knew nothing at all about it, that indeed he had been cosseted by his mother and all his sisters and ruled by his male guardians. He could not be blamed in any way, then, for what had happened to her father. And she could not blame him simply for having the name
Whitleaf
.

But despite the softening of her attitude toward him, Susanna could not see any possibility of their becoming friends. It was an absurd idea. They had nothing whatsoever in common.

And yet the idea had a certain appeal. She had never had a male friend. Mr. Huckerby and Mr. Upton, the art master, were not quite friends, though they were colleagues with whom she shared a mutual respect. And Mr. Keeble was just a friendly acquaintance, a sort of father figure as he guarded the door of the school from every imaginable or imaginary wolf.

In the coming days she saw further evidence of Lord Whitleaf's kindness. After dinner at the Raycrofts' one evening, he offered to take the one empty place at a card table that no one else seemed eager to fill even though he knew that his partner was to be old Mrs. Moss, who was deaf and indecisive and invariably played the wrong card when she
did
make a decision. And though the two of them lost all five of the hands they played, he succeeded in keeping everyone at the table amused and in convincing Mrs. Moss that it was his clumsy play that had ensured their defeat.

And when, after church on Sunday, Susanna overheard the vicar greet Miss Honeydew and tell her how gratifying it was to see her at church despite the rain that had been falling earlier, she also heard Miss Honeydew tell him that Viscount Whitleaf had brought a closed carriage to her cottage early enough that she had had time to get ready to come.

The Earl of Edgecombe told Frances and Susanna after he had taken Mr. Raycroft and the viscount on a tour of the home farm one morning that when they had passed the laborers' cottages and he had stopped to call upon one of his men who had cut his hand rather badly the week before, the viscount had wandered off to talk with some of the wives who were outside their homes pegging out their washing, it being Monday and therefore laundry day. He had been discovered half an hour later, without his coat or hat, perched on a ladder held by one woman and two children and making an adjustment to a line that dragged too close to the ground when weighed down by wet clothes. All the neighborhood women and children had been gathered around, calling up advice.

“And of course,” the earl added, chuckling, “they were all gazing worshipfully up at him too—when he did not have them all doubled up with laughter, that was.”

And he did not forget that he wanted to be Susanna's friend.

She saw him every day. They never spent longer than half an hour alone together at a time—he was too discreet for that, and if he had not been, she would. She certainly did not want to arouse any gossip in the neighborhood. Nor did she want to make Frances uneasy. But almost always when they met he contrived to exchange a few private words with her or to take her apart from the company for a short while.

She came to look forward to those brief interludes as the highlight of her days.

After playing cards with Mrs. Moss at the Raycrofts' dinner, for example, he approached Susanna, asked if he could fetch her a cup of tea, and when she said yes, told her that perhaps she ought to come with him if Dannen would excuse her so that he would be sure to add just the right amount of milk and sugar.

She had been seated beside Mr. Dannen for all of an hour, listening to stories about his Scottish ancestors, some of which she had heard before.

“You were beginning to look cross-eyed with boredom,” Viscount Whitleaf told her.

“Oh, I was not!” she protested indignantly. “I would not be so ill-mannered.”

“But it is interesting to note,” he said, “that you do not deny that you
were
bored. Anyway, I have rescued you. What are friends for?”

She laughed, and they stood talking to each other for a while beside the tea tray until Mr. Crossley and Miss Krebbs joined them.

One afternoon he rode over to Barclay Court with Miss Raycroft and her brother, and the three of them stayed for tea. But when Mr. Raycroft rose to leave, his sister protested that she wanted to see some watercolors of Vienna the countess had brought back from Europe and promised to show her since Vienna was where Alice Hickmore was spending the winter. Mr. Raycroft sat down again to continue his conversation with the earl, Frances took Miss Raycroft up to her room, and Viscount Whitleaf invited Susanna to stroll out on the terrace with him until his companions were ready to leave. He told her—at her prompting—about his years at Oxford, where he had studied the classics. It seemed from what he said that he actually
had
studied, not merely used the years away from home to kick up his heels and enjoy life.

Her opinion of him took another turn for the better.

The next day was chilly and blustery, but Susanna and Frances decided to walk into the village anyway for fresh air and exercise and for Frances to deliver a basket of food to a former housekeeper at Barclay Court who had celebrated her eightieth birthday the month before when Frances and the earl were still away. Susanna wanted to buy some new ribbon to trim the old gown she would wear to the assembly.

She explained that to Viscount Whitleaf, whom they met as he was striding along the village street after escorting two of the Calvert sisters home from Hareford House, and at his suggestion Frances proceeded on her way to deliver her basket while he escorted Susanna to the village shop, where she made her purchase before being taken to the village inn to be treated to a glass of lemonade and a pastry.

And then he offered to escort them both back to Barclay Court, insisting when Frances protested that he could never deny himself the pleasure of having a lady for each arm as he walked—and that he hoped
she
would not deny him that pleasure.

“Far be it from me to cause you any such misery,” Frances said with a laugh, taking one of his arms while Susanna took the other. “And thank you.”

He talked about music with Frances, skillfully drawing Susanna in too. He had, she realized, considerable conversational skills when he chose to use them. And considerable knowledge too.

If Susanna felt some small disappointment in the friendship, it was in the fact that Viscount Whitleaf had not solicited her hand for any of the sets at the assembly, which was fast approaching. He was, of course, engaged to dance at least the first four sets—she remembered that from the day they had met. Perhaps he had promised all the others too.

Or perhaps friends did not feel the need to dance with each other.

No one had yet reserved any sets with her. She was almost sure, of course, that the earl would dance with her, and probably Mr. Raycroft too. Perhaps even Mr. Dannen. But how lovely it would be—what a crowning delight—to dance with Viscount Whitleaf. It would be something to tell her friends about, something to relive in memory all the rest of her life. And if it happened also to be the waltz…

But she would not dwell upon that slight disappointment. Already this was turning into a holiday that would buoy her spirits all through the autumn term at school. She must not be greedy.

Perhaps he would ask her when the evening came.

Or perhaps, if he had no free sets, he would at least find some time to come and talk with her so that she would feel less of a wallflower.

It did not matter. She had a
gentleman friend.
What startling stories she would have to share with Claudia and Anne when she returned to Bath.

In the meantime, the holiday was still not at an end.

6

The whole neighborhood had been invited to an afternoon picnic at
Barclay Court, and fortunately the good weather had returned for the occasion after a few days of clouds and winds and chill.

Peter was greatly enjoying himself despite memories of an affectionate, subtly reproachful letter that morning from his mother, whose house party was proceeding without him. If he were there at Sidley Park now, he thought, he would very possibly be attending just exactly the same type of event as he was here. Except that there he would know that one in particular of the young ladies present had been selected as a potential bride for him—Miss Rose Larchwell. And he would know that his mother's fond, anxious eyes were following him wherever he went. There he would feel all the burden of being loved dearly by someone he had forgiven, though he had not forgotten.

Perhaps it would have been better
not
to have forgiven, or at least to have forgiven conditionally. Perhaps he ought to have made it crystal clear to her that he would not accept any further interference in his life, especially as a matchmaker. Perhaps he ought to have told her that Sidley could no longer be her home. But she had been so brokenhearted—for him as well as for herself. And he had been only twenty-one. Besides all of which, he had
loved
her and still did. She was his mother.

And so she seemed to feel it was her mission in life to atone, to find him a bride in place of the one she had lost for him.

He shook off the thought of what might be proceeding at Sidley and concentrated on what was happening at Barclay Court. Here he could relax and enjoy himself with whomever he chose—or with whoever chose him.

The picnic site was a wide, grassy bank close to the narrower end of a large lake, at some remove from the house. There was a picturesque three-arched stone bridge spanning its banks nearby. The waters from a river flowed rather swiftly beneath it into the lake. From the center of the bridge, where he stood for a while early in the afternoon with Miss Raycroft, Miss Mary Calvert, and Miss Krebbs, he could see that the swiftness of the water was caused by a waterfall farther back along the river among the trees. He gazed appreciatively at the scene while they chattered about the upcoming assembly.

Partway along the bank on the far side of the lake there was a pretty octagonal wooden pavilion. He walked there a little later with Finn, Miss Calvert, Miss Jane Calvert, and Miss Moss and her brother. They sat inside the structure for a while admiring the view, talking merrily, and laughing a great deal.

Most of the conversation there too concerned the assembly, to which they were all looking forward with eager anticipation. It was the first, apparently, since last Christmas.

After they had returned to the picnic site, Peter sat for a while on one of the blankets that had been spread for the convenience of the guests, conversing with the Countess of Edgecombe and a few of her older neighbors. In answer to their questions she told them something of her recent singing tour of Europe.

The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun warm without being oppressively hot. There was a very light breeze. It was a perfect summer day.

The boats were proving popular. There were four of them, each designed for no more than two persons, one rower and one passenger, though Peter found himself with two ladies squeezed onto the seat facing him every time he was at the oars. He made no complaint. Why should he when there was a pair of ladies to admire each time instead of one? In their flimsy summer finery and bonnets, they all looked good enough to eat. And they were all clearly enjoying the rare treat of a lovely summer day coinciding for once with an outdoor social event.

“The last time we were invited to a picnic,” Miss Mary Calvert said, trailing one hand in the water, “it rained cats and dogs all day and all night. Do you remember, Rosamond? It was for the retirement of the old vicar and we all had to be crammed into the vicarage and pretend that we were not hugely disappointed.”

Peter did not speak with Susanna Osbourne for all of the first hour or so. Each day since their visit to Miss Honeydew's he had found himself looking forward to spending some time with her, but each day he had felt the necessity of having to keep their encounters short since he could not simply include her in the crowd of young ladies who often hung about him for long spells at a time—she would not have appreciated the frivolity of the group conversation. Having an actual lady
friend
was a novel venture for him, but he was very aware that his interest in her might be misconstrued by others if he was not careful. And so he
was
careful never to single her out immediately at any entertainment, and even when he did, to spend no more than half an hour with her.

Earlier in the afternoon he had bowed to her on the terrace when he arrived, made some deliberately bland observation about the weather just to see the light of amusement in her eyes, and turned his attention elsewhere. And then he had proceeded to enjoy himself—as had she.

The Reverend Birney, the fair-haired, fresh-faced young vicar, took her for a row on the lake and engaged her in earnest conversation the whole time—Peter watched them.

Dannen, that prize bore, took her walking along the near bank with Raycroft and the countess. And then he kept her standing close to the water for all of fifteen minutes after the other two had returned to the picnic site. Peter knew because he timed what was obviously a monologue.

Crossley, a widower in his forties, fetched her a glass of lemonade on her return and sat with her for a while, pointing out features of the view with wide arm gestures. Peter knew because he watched.

It struck him suddenly that her own assessment of her marriage prospects was quite possibly overpessimistic. Poor and dowerless as she must be, she had not failed to catch the eye of almost every eligible bachelor in the neighborhood. But she was surely far too sensible to marry Dannen and too lively to consider Birney. And Crossley was too old for her—he could be her father, for God's sake.

In fact, the very thought of her marrying any of the present prospects made Peter quite unreasonably irritable. And he
was
being unreasonable. Surely any half-decent marriage was preferable to life as a spinster schoolteacher. At least, that was what he knew any of his sisters would tell him.

But even as he was wool-gathering with such thoughts and neglecting the ladies who chattered about him, someone suggested a game before tea, and a chorus of enthusiastic voices was raised with a dizzying variety of suggestions, which ranged from cricket to hide-and-seek. Cricket could not be played, however, unless someone dashed back to the house for all the necessary—and bulky—equipment. Besides, Miss Moss complained with the obvious support of most of the other ladies, cricket was really a man's game. And hide-and-seek was not practical, as the trees did not grow thickly on this side of the lake and there were very few other hiding places. All of the other suggestions were rejected too for one reason or another.

It seemed they were to proceed gameless to tea after all—until Miss Osbourne spoke up.

“How about boat races?” she suggested.

There was a swell of excited approval—and then the inevitable dissenting voice.

“But there are too few gentlemen to row all of us,” Miss Jane Calvert pointed out. “Some of us would have to stand and watch.”

The other ladies looked at her in dismay, all of them, it seemed, with mental visions of being among the excluded.

“But who is to say,” Miss Osbourne asked, “that the men have to have all the fun? I was thinking of races in which
all
of us would row and none of us would be passengers.”

“Oh, I say,” Moss said, and laughed.

“That is the best idea I have heard yet, Susanna,” the countess said.

Peter folded his arms and pursed his lips.

“But I have never rowed a boat,” Miss Raycroft protested.

“Neither have I,” Miss Krebbs wailed. “I could not possibly…”

“We must think of something else, then,” Miss Mary Calvert said.

But Miss Osbourne raised her voice again, more firmly than before.

“What?” She looked about at the circle of those who had gathered to choose a game, and it was immediately apparent to Peter's amused eye that she had forgotten herself and had slipped into an accustomed role of teacher rallying unenthusiastic pupils. “We are going to miss the chance of taking the oars ourselves and demonstrating that we are not just decorative ornaments who must always be passengers? We are not going to strive to beat the men?”

“Oh, I say,” Moss said again, while Peter grinned and caught an identical expression on Edgecombe's face.

“
Beat
the
men
?” Miss Krebbs half shrieked again. She looked as if she were close to swooning.

A few of the other young ladies were giggling, but they looked definitely interested.

“There are only four boats,” Miss Osbourne pointed out. “We will have to have elimination heats—across the lake to the pavilion and back again ought to be far enough. The ladies will compete against one another and the men against one another. At the end there will be a race between the winning man and the winning woman.
Then
we will see what sort of competition the lady will offer the gentleman.”

She was flushed and bright-eyed and full of energy and enthusiasm—a born leader, Peter guessed, gazing at her, intrigued and not a little dazzled. And she was going to get her way too, by Jove. Despite the misgivings with which almost all the young ladies had greeted the initial suggestion—especially when they had known that they were not to be mere passengers in the boats—they were now fairly bouncing with eagerness to get the races under way.

“This is going to be the best picnic ever,” Miss Mary Calvert declared with youthful hyperbole as she flashed Peter a bright smile.

Had Miss Osbourne told him she was the games teacher at school? He seemed to recall her saying something to that effect though he had not taken much notice at the time. A
games
teacher?
Was
there such a thing as a games teacher at a girls' school?

For the next hour there was far more bouncing up and down and cheering and squealing and laughing—and some good-natured derision—on the bank than there was great expertise shown in the water. A few of the races were close—Miss Calvert narrowly beat the countess, though Miss Moss and Miss Mary Calvert were left far behind, an outcome brought about by the twin facts that each of them moved in circles as much as they moved in a straight line and that neither of them could stop giggling. Raycroft beat Dannen by a nose, a come-from-behind victory that resulted from a final, impressive burst of speed while Finn and Moss were only a boat length or so back. A few of the races were runaways by the winner—Miss Osbourne in her heat, for example, Peter in his. She beat Miss Calvert in the runoff ladies' heat too, and he beat Edgecombe in the men's, though only by half a boat length.

And so everything came down to the final race and everyone without exception gathered on the bank even though the countess laughingly protested that they must all be half starved and would flatly refuse any further invitation to one of her entertainments. They would have tea, she promised, the moment a winner was determined.

“I daresay it will not be Miss Osbourne,” Raycroft remarked cheerfully, but with a lamentable lack of either tact or gallantry.

Miss Raycroft punched him on the arm and the other ladies' voices were raised in collective indignation. Both Peter and Susanna Osbourne laughed. He grinned at her, and she looked back, bright-eyed and determined.

She looked absurdly small and fragile to be taking on such a challenge. And quite irresistibly attractive too, by Jove. There
was
something attractive about an athletic woman, he thought in some surprise.

The young ladies seemed uncertain whom they should champion. They solved the problem by clapping and jumping up and down and calling their encouragement indiscriminately to both contestants. Most of the older people were intent upon offering advice to Miss Osbourne, who was climbing into one of the boats with Edgecombe's assistance. Most of the other men were unashamedly partial.

“I say,” Moss called, “you had better win, Whitleaf. It would be a ghastly humiliation to us all if you did not.”

“You have the honor of our sex on your shoulders, Whitleaf,” Crossley agreed.

“I think you had better not win, my lord,” the Reverend Birney advised. “Gentlemanly gallantry and all that.”

But his suggestion was met by a burst of derision from the men and a chorus of indignant protest from the ladies.

Susanna Osbourne took the oars and flexed her fingers about them.

Everyone stood back, Edgecombe told them to take their marks, there were some urgent shushing noises, and then they were off.

Peter grinned across at the other boat as soon as they had cleared the shore, but Miss Osbourne was concentrating upon setting her stroke. She had learned much during the past hour, he noticed. She had learned not to dip her oars too deeply into the water and thus impede her progress rather than help it. Now she was skimming along quite neatly with the minimum of effort. It was actually amazing what strength was in those small, fair-skinned arms. The brim of her straw bonnet fluttered in the breeze.

He had not told anyone—and Raycroft had not divulged his secret—that he had been a member of the rowing team at Oxford. Even against the men he had not put out his finest effort. Now he kept his boat just ahead of Miss Osbourne's as they approached the pavilion, the halfway mark. She maneuvered with only slight clumsiness as she turned her boat.

There was a great deal of noise proceeding from the opposite bank, he could hear.

Susanna Osbourne was laughing. She glanced across at him as she straightened out her boat for the return journey and he grinned back at her, pausing for a moment.