But Lady Markham had raised one staying hand and he sat again.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding weary. “There is no need to go. There was something in your father’s past, Susanna, something that had remained hidden for years but had finally come to light. Things were becoming ugly for him. He thought shame would be brought down upon you and himself and upon Markham for having employed him and housed him. He thought, I suppose, that he would be dismissed in disgrace and would have no further means of support for himself and a young daughter. He could see no other way out but to do what he did. That is all I remember. It was very tragic, but nothing can be done now to change the unfortunate outcome.”

It all seemed a little thin and evasive to Peter. I believe I did. That is all I remember. Would not every word of a suicide note be seared on the brain of anyone who had read it-especially when the man had lived and worked and shot himself in one’s own home?

“And my letter?” Susanna asked softly.

“To my knowledge it was not opened,” Lady Markham said.

“Was it destroyed?” Susanna asked.

“I do not know.” Lady Markham blinked rapidly. “I cannot imagine Markham burning it, but I do not know.”

“Perhaps Theo knows, Mama,” Edith suggested. “Oh, surely it is still in existence.”

“It is probably as well if it is not,” Susanna said. She got to her feet, and Peter rose too. “If my father did anything so very wrong before I was born, it seems to me that he atoned for it with a life of hard work and loyal service to Sir Charles. I do not want to know what it was he did. I do not want to know who…Oh, it does not matter. I would rather leave him in peace. I do thank you both for receiving me and for the tea, but I must go now. I have been away from the school for a whole afternoon and must not neglect my duties any longer.”

“Susanna,” Edith said, jumping up too, “do call on us again. Perhaps we can go walking together or shopping. Perhaps-”

“No,” Susanna said. “My teaching duties occupy me almost all day every day, Edith, and there is the Christmas concert coming up to keep me even busier. I had last evening off and this afternoon. I have used up my quota of free time for quite a while. I…You have your husband and son now to occupy your life. We move in different worlds. It would be best to leave it that way.”

Edith folded her hands at her waist. She looked hurt.

“I shall write to you,” she said. “I daresay you will be able to find a few spare minutes in which to read a letter.”

“Thank you.” Susanna gave her a tight smile.

“This has been a pleasure,” Lady Markham said. “You will never know, Susanna, how many times over the years I have lain awake wondering what happened to you, wondering if you were alive or dead and if we could have done anything more at the time to find you. I am delighted that you came. You will see her safely back to Miss Martin’s school, Whitleaf?”

“I will, ma’am,” he said, bowing.

But it seemed to him as they stepped out onto the street a few minutes later that the visit had not settled a great deal. Perhaps it did not have to, though. Susanna seemed not to want to find out exactly what had happened eleven years ago and why. Perhaps the comfort of knowing that her father had written to her was enough. It would not be enough for him, but that was not the point, was it?

And at least the visit had given pleasure to Lady Markham and Edith and had perhaps persuaded Susanna that she had not been the unwanted burden she had thought she was.

“Are you glad you came?” he asked, drawing her arm through his.

She turned her head to look at him briefly.

“Yes,” she said. “I would have been afraid to set foot beyond the school doors for fear of running into them. Now I have come face-to-face with them and discovered that they are just people and just as I remember them. Edith is pretty, is she not? I hope she will be happy with Mr. Morley.”

“Even though you never could be?” He chuckled.

“But I was not asked to be, was I?” She laughed too.

It was good to hear her laugh again.


And so the end had come. She might have been celebrating her betrothal now. Instead she was about to say good-bye.

By her own choice.

Susanna knew as they walked along Great Pulteney Street in silence and turned onto Sydney Place that memories of her visit to Lady Markham and Edith would return to haunt her for some time to come, along with her decision not to press on with inquiries into the contents of her father’s letter to Sir Charles Markham or into the possible continued existence of the letter he had written her.

But she could not think of any of that now.

Her heart was heavy. She felt that with every step she took she trod on it, increasing her pain.

Yet at the beginning of the afternoon she had been so hopeful that it could all end cheerfully and amicably. The fact that she loved him was of little significance. Given the circumstances of her life, it would have been strange indeed if she had not fallen in love with him. She would recover. How could she not? A happy marriage between them would be impossible for all sorts of reasons, and she would rather lose him altogether and forever than have an unhappy marriage with him.

But, oh, at the moment it was very hard to think such sensible thoughts. In an hour’s time she would think them, perhaps. Tonight she would think them, and next week, and next month. But now…

“I shall be making an early start for London in the morning,” he said as they turned onto Sutton Street and the school came into sight.

“Yes,” she said. “There cannot be much to keep a visitor in Bath, especially at this time of year.”

“I have spent a pleasant few days here, though,” he said.

“I am glad.”

They spoke to each other like cheerful, polite strangers.

“It has been good to see you again,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “we will meet again sometime.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant.”

Their footsteps slowed and then stopped altogether before they turned onto Daniel Street.

“Susanna,” he said, his hand covering hers on his arm, though he did not turn his head to look down at her. “I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you. I know you do not like me half the time or approve of me the other half, but I do care. I think we were friends once. I think in many ways we still are. But when we became more than friends on that one afternoon, it really was more. I was not just a lustful man taking advantage of being alone with an innocent woman. I cared for you. I know you do not want me or need me. I know you are happy with the life you have. But I think perhaps in some way you have cared too, and I wanted you to know that…Well. Was there ever a more muddled monologue, and just at the time when I most wanted to be eloquent and say something memorable?”

“Oh, Peter,” she said, clinging to his arm, “I do like you. Of course I do. And of course I approve of most of what I see in you. How could I not? You are always so very kind. And I care for you too.”

“But not enough to marry me?” he asked her, still not looking at her.

“No.” It was easier just to say no than try to explain-it was impossible, anyway, to explain all her reasons. “I do thank you, but no, we would not suit.”

“No,” he said softly, “I suppose not. I will leave you here, then.”

“Yes.” Panic grabbed at her stomach, her knees, her throat. She slid her hand from his arm.

He turned then and took both her hands in his, squeezing them so tightly for a moment that she almost winced. He lifted them one at a time and set her gloved palms to his lips.

He raised his eyes to hers-and smiled.

“An already glorious November day has seemed warmer and brighter because of your presence in it,” he said, misquoting his very first words to her. “Thank you, Susanna.”

And so he drew a smile from her even though her heart was breaking.

“Foolish,” she said. “Ah, foolish.”

And somehow they both laughed.

“Good-bye, Peter,” she said.

And because she could not bear any more, she dashed with ungainly haste around the corner and up to the door of the school, and she lifted the knocker and let it fall with more force than was necessary.

She glanced toward the corner as Mr. Keeble opened the door, but there was no one there. She stepped inside, and the door closed behind her.

And now it seemed to her that there was nothing left to live for. Nothing at all. She was in too much distress to notice the melodrama of the thought.

I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you.

Mary Fisher, one of the middle school boarders, was on her way up the stairs. She turned back when she saw who had come through the door.

“Oh, Miss Osbourne,” she cried, all excitement, “we and Mr. Upton have made the changes you wanted to the sketches for the scenery and finished them. They are ever so gorgeous. Do come and see.”

“Of course. I can hardly wait. Lead the way, then, Mary,” Susanna said, smiling brightly as she pulled loose the ribbons of her bonnet. “Have you been working all afternoon? How splendid of you.”

I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you.

… before I leave…

And now he was gone.


20


Peter went straight from Bath to Sidley Park-to stay.