Simply Magic

But she did not smile back. She would not allow him to make light of the question.

“Your dreams, ” she said.

He pushed his plate away from him and thought for a few moments.

“They are not grand things at all,” he said. “I dream of tramping about my own land with a stout staff in my hand and dogs panting at my heels. I dream of knowing the land from the inside out, working it, knowing the feel of its soil between my fingers, the thrill of seeing crops I have helped plant poke green and fragile above the earth. I dream of knowing my workers and their families, of knowing their dreams and working with them to bring harmony to all our lives and aspirations. I dream of being master of my own home and my own life at last. I dream of knowing my neighbors in such a way that I can drop in on them at any time of the day or evening or they can feel free to drop in on me without any discomfort. I dream of a time when being Viscount Whitleaf does not set me apart from most other mortals who live in the vicinity of my home. There-is that enough?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I am glad you convinced me that we could be friends. I am glad to have known you. I like you.”

He felt strangely touched by her words.

“Well, now.” He laughed softly. “That is praise indeed. Miss Susanna Osbourne likes me.”

She sat back in her chair and lowered her hands to her lap.

“I was not being sarcastic,” he told her. “I have always assumed that most people of my acquaintance like me-I do not believe I am a difficult fellow to get along with. But I do not recall anyone’s actually saying so. The words coming from you warm my heart-that pumping organ in my chest.”

Her smile held genuine amusement this time.

“Tell me your dreams,” he said.

She looked instantly wistful.

“Oh,” she said, “I have no dreams, really. I am contented with what I have.”

“If that is true,” he told her, “it is the saddest thing I have heard in a long while. We all need dreams. But I do not believe that you have none. I can see from your eyes that you have plenty.”

“From my eyes?” She looked suddenly wary. “Eyes cannot speak.”

“There you are wrong, Miss Literalist,” he said. “Eyes can be very eloquent indeed, yours more than most. Tell me your dreams. I have told you mine, and we are friends, are we not? I am not likely to shout with derision or stand on my chair to announce your secret dreams to the whole company.”

“They are as humble as yours,” she said, smiling again. “A home of my own. I lived in someone else’s house for my first twelve years and since then I have lived at the school in Bath. I dream of a home of my own in a place like this, where there are neighbors and friends. It does not have to be large. A cottage would suffice. And a small garden where I could grow flowers and vegetables and create beauty and plenty around me. And…Oh, and my ultimate dream.”

She stopped and bit her lower lip. But she continued when he said nothing.

“A husband and a few children, a family of my own to cherish and be loved by,” she said. “I do not dream of wealth or grandeur-only of love. There, you did insist. Those are my dreams.”

And they were indeed humble ones. No woman, he thought, should be denied her own home and family if she wished for them, and yet she believed they were impossible dreams for her. Were they? She was beautiful beyond belief and sweet-natured. And yet where, apart from here, would she ever go to meet eligible men? Perhaps he could…

But no. He could not. He certainly could not. There was no point in beginning to plot or scheme. Besides…Well, besides nothing.

Both their cups of tea, he noticed suddenly, had a grayish film of coldness covering the surface. Both their plates were still almost full of food.

“Let me get you a fresh cup of tea,” he suggested.

But her face showed surprise when she looked beyond him and, glancing over his shoulder, he could see that they were alone. Sounds of music and merriment were coming from the main room. The final set of the evening was already in progress.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Are you engaged to dance this set?”

“No,” she said.

“Neither am I,” he said in some relief. “It is exceedingly warm in here, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Shall we stroll outside,” he suggested, “until everyone else is ready to leave?”

She hesitated for only a moment.

“That would be pleasant,” she said.

And so five minutes later they were strolling along the village street, past the crush of carriages and servants waiting to pick up their respective passengers, past the shop, the churchyard, and the vicarage, and the church itself. She had taken his arm, and after a few minutes he clasped her hand in his, lacing their fingers and pressing her arm to his side.

“Being here for these last two weeks has reminded me of how very much more I enjoy the country than London or Brighton or any other large center,” he said. “I think I really must go home as soon as my mother’s house party has ended. Perhaps I will not have missed the whole of the harvest. And perhaps…Well, never mind.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “your dream really will come true one day soon. I hope so. You belong with people like these.”

“I would not have enjoyed these two weeks half as much, though, if I had not met you,” he told her, and was surprised by the sincerity of his words. They were the sort of empty, meaningless words he usually spoke when flirting

“The two weeks are not quite at an end,” she said. “There are still three days left. Oh, dear, only three days.”

Her tone was wistful. After those three days for her, of course, there was only a return to school and work to look forward to-though he knew from what she had said on other occasions that she genuinely enjoyed teaching. He knew too-she had just admitted it-that the idea of teaching for the rest of her life fell far short of her dreams.

They had stopped outside the church, in the shadow of an elm tree.

“Do you wish you could stay longer, then?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “All good things must come to an end, and it is time to go back. It is just that this has been the loveliest holiday I have ever spent, and there is a certain sadness in knowing that it is all but over.”

“Has it been made lovelier by the fact that I have been here?” he asked her.

Again it was the sort of question he would ask when flirting with a woman-and he would smile and she would smile, and they would both know he meant nothing by it. But Susanna Osbourne was giving serious consideration to the question, and he waited for her answer as if it were somehow important to him.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I have valued our friendship.”

She was, he noticed, already referring to it almost in the past tense. Soon it would be fully in the past-it was very unlikely that they would meet again after they left here. He never went to Bath, and she almost never left it.

“Friendship,” he repeated softly, bending his head closer to hers. “It does not seem a strong enough word, does it? Are we not a little more than just friends?”

And what the devil did he mean by that? But unfortunately it was only later that