Simply Magic

You were dressed warmly, I trust, Miss Osbourne? You left your outdoor garments downstairs?”

“I did, sir.” She smiled. “My cloak and gloves are warm enough for even the coldest day.”

“You were wise to wear them today, then,” he said. “Edith 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.”

“No, I did not,” Susanna said, looking at Edith. “How lovely for you.”

“We have a son,” Edith said with a smile. “He is quite adorable, is he not, dearest? He looks like his papa.”

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.

“Susanna,” Edith said at last, “do you live in Bath? Where is your house?”

“I teach and live at Miss Martin’s School for Girls on Daniel Street,” Susanna said. “I teach writing and penmanship and games among other things.”

“Games?” Morley said. “I hope nothing too strenuous, Miss Osbourne. 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.”

“You teach, ” Lady Markham said before Susanna could reply-and while Peter was still entertaining amused memories of her rowing and flushed and laughing in the boat races at Barclay Court. “However did that come about, Susanna?”

“I went to London,” she explained, “and registered at an employment agency. But I was fortunate enough to be singled out and sent as a charity pupil to Miss Martin’s school here. I was a pupil until I was eighteen, and then I was offered a position as junior teacher.”

“You went to London,” Lady Markham said. “But how did you get there, Susanna? You were a child. And we checked all the stagecoach stops for miles in every direction.”

“I went into my father’s room,” Susanna said. “There 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.”

“It is to be hoped, Miss Osbourne,” Morley said, “that 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.”

“I do not believe I ever did sit on hay, sir,” she said.

“Oh, Susanna,” Lady Markham said, setting her cup and saucer down on her empty plate, “ why 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 you-or so I thought.”

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.

“As you just observed, ma’am,” she said, “I 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. I-”

“The church must be firm on such matters of principle,” Morley said, “regrettable as-”

“Dearest,” Edith said, interrupting, “I am very much afraid that Jamie might have awoken and will be wanting one of us even though Nurse is with him.”

He jumped to his feet. “I shall go to him immediately,” he said, “if you will excuse me, Miss Osbourne, Lord Whitleaf, Mama-in-law. But I am sure you all will excuse the natural anxieties of a new father.”

“Thank you, Lawrence,” Edith said. “You are very good.”

Had the circumstances 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 Susanna’s distress-and that of his lifelong neighbors too.

“Markham would not let you-or even me-see your papa,” Lady Markham said after Morley had closed the door behind him, “because…well…”

“I understand,” Susanna said. “He 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.”

“You did not even say good-bye to me, ” Edith said. “First 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 nobody could find you. Oh, I am sorry.” She leaned back in her chair. “Your 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 wish-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 girls’ school. I am quite sure you must be a good teacher.”

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 Susanna’s 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 behind-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 Pandora’s 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 passed.

The moment for any meaningful truth to be spoken seemed almost to have passed 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 Markham’s 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.

“I was telling Miss Osbourne a short while ago, ma’am,” he said into a momentary