Simply Magic

“I cannot say I do,” she said.

“He was the late Sir Charles Markham’s secretary for a number of years,” he explained.

“Was he?” She gave the matter some thought, but then shrugged and shook her head. “Then I would not have known him, would I?”

“You scolded me once,” he said, “when he was teaching Theo and me to write in some fancy script in his study. You came dashing in and then were very upset because you had thought we were up in Theo’s room when instead we were breathing in ink fumes and probably giving ourselves a headache.”

“You had very delicate health, my love,” she said. “I always feared for you, especially if I could not find you where I expected you to be. But I do not remember that particular incident.”

“And then there was the time,” he said, “when I was home from school for a week and went over to Fincham with you-without the girls-only to discover that Theo did not have a school holiday and Edith was away at a birthday party somewhere. I went riding off on one of the horses from the stable to run an errand with Mr. Osbourne-I daresay I told him I had your permission or else he thought that at my age I did not need it. You were so upset by the time we came back that I believe you were actually ill after we came home. It was the last time I saw him.”

“Oh?” she said. “Was he dismissed? I daresay he ought to have been.”

“He died,” he said. “Suddenly. Of a heart attack.”

“Oh?” she said. “That was unfortunate. But what can have put a mere secretary into your mind years after his death? Do be a love and ring for the tea tray.”

He did so without answering her question. It made perfect sense, of course, that she would not remember a man who had really been no more than a glorified servant. It was even less likely that she would remember Susanna Osbourne-not that he had been about to mention her name to his mother.

He was trying hard to forget it himself-or at least the guilt with which he remembered it.

He called upon all his neighbors in the coming weeks. The Harrises told him about their recent stay at Tunbridge Wells, the Mummerts wanted to know about all the latest fashions in London, since they were planning to spend a few weeks there in the spring, and the Poles regaled him with stories of the exploits of their numerous grandchildren. They were all perfectly amiable, but none of them issued any invitations to him to dine or play cards or join them at any other entertainment. It had never been done-he was Viscount Whitleaf and as far above them in station as the stars. Everything in their manner during his visits demonstrated an almost awed respect. All of them assured him that they were deeply honored that he had called. But he issued no invitations either-his mother would be uncomfortable, even upset, about having her house invaded by inferior company.

Her house!

It was his!

Dash it all, it was harder than he thought to change his way of thinking. Sidley had been his mother’s domain since her marriage. And though it had been his property for twenty-three years, for eighteen of those he had been a minor and it was only natural that his mother remain in charge.

Why the devil had he not told his uncles and his mother when he turned twenty- one that he was far too young to think of marriage but that he was at exactly the right age to take over the running of his own life and home and estate? It would have been easy then. It would have been the natural thing to do. It was what everyone had surely been prepared for.

Or why, when he had decided not to marry, had he not told his mother quite firmly that she was going to have to find somewhere else to live than the main house at Sidley?

But of course he had been too young for all of it. His life had been effectively lived for him for twenty-one years. How could he have developed the wisdom overnight to act as he ought?

He called one day at Fincham and was delighted to find Theo at home. Edith was no longer there, of course. She had married Lawrence Morley two years ago and now lived in Gloucestershire with her husband. Lady Markham was currently there with her, lending her support after the recent birth of Edith’s first child.

Peter called several times after that first visit and sometimes went riding with his longtime friend. On one of those occasions he asked the same question he had raised with his mother.

“Do you remember Osbourne?” he asked.

“ William Osbourne?” Theo asked. “My father’s secretary, do you mean?”

“I rather liked him,” Peter said. “He always had time for us, if you remember. It was a pity about his death.”

Theo leaned forward out of his saddle to open a gate into a field so that they could ride across country instead of having to keep to the dusty lane.

“It was a tragedy,” he agreed. “Avoidable too, as such deaths always are. Though I do not suppose he saw it that way, poor fellow.”

“He could have avoided it?” Peter asked.

“Easily,” Theo said dryly, as he shut the gate behind them. “By not putting that bullet through his brain.”

“He killed himself?” Peter’s hands tightened so suddenly upon the reins that his horse reared up and he had to struggle to keep his seat and bring it back under control.

“You did not know?” Theo was frowning when Peter finally looked back at him. “No one told you?”

“Only that he had died,” Peter said.

“Hmm.” Theo continued on his way across the field. “That makes sense, I suppose. You were always sheltered from any unpleasantness, weren’t you? What put you in mind of him now, anyway?”

“I ran into his daughter this summer,” Peter said.

“Susanna?” Theo said. “I was under the impression she had fallen off the ends of the earth, poor girl-though I suppose she is a woman now. Edith was inconsolable, apparently, when she ran off, and my mother was frantic. Fortunately I was away at school and missed all the drama. I was sorry about Osbourne, though. He was a decent fellow.”

“ Why did he kill himself?” Peter asked.

“All sorts of unlikely possibilities were suggested to me when I asked the same question at the time,” Theo said. “Either no one knew the real reason or else everyone was being very cagey about it. He had to be buried in unconsecrated ground-which probably did not matter much to him but would have been hard on Susanna if she had stayed for the funeral. Apparently she did not. Anyway, should we change the subject?”

They did not refer to it again either on that afternoon or on any subsequent occasion. But Peter was left wondering what the devil could have been so dire in Osbourne’s life that he had put an end to it despite the fact that he had a daughter to support. Her running away was a little more understandable now, though. Her father had committed suicide-a nasty sin according to Church doctrine. Poor child-running off to London and trying to find employment there. If Lady Hallmere was indeed responsible for sending her to Miss Martin’s school in Bath, then he would forever feel kindly toward her.

But he still tried hard not even to think of Susanna Osbourne-or of what he had done to her the day before she left Barclay Court.

He spent some time out on the home farm, though not as much as he would have liked. The harvest was almost all in and it would have seemed mildly ridiculous to jump in to help now, all energy and enthusiasm, when there was very little left to do.

He spent some time with his steward and went over all the books with him, despite the fact that he carefully examined each monthly report that was sent him. But Millingsworth had been