Mary Balogh - Simply Magic

She thought as she entered the house a few moments later that perhaps she ought to have said no. Perhaps her grandparents would recognize the name Whitleaf as she had during the summer. But it was too late now. Besides, she could not bear to say good-bye to him and then have to go upstairs to the drawing room alone.

The newly arrived visitors were there and expecting her, the butler informed her as he took her cloak and bonnet from her and she fluffed up her curls and brushed her hands over her dress. He turned to lead the way.

She did not take Peter’s arm. If she did, she might cling. This was something she must do herself, even if she had chosen to have him accompany her for moral support.

Lady Markham, Edith, Mr. Morley, Theodore-they were all in the drawing room, Susanna saw as soon as she had crossed the threshold. So were three strangers, all of whom got to their feet at sight of her. Theodore came striding toward her.

“Susanna,” he said, taking her hand in both of his and squeezing it before letting it go, “you must come and meet Colonel and Mrs. Osbourne and the Reverend Clapton, your grandparents.”

The lady was slender almost to the point of thinness, with white, carefully coiffed hair, a lined face, and a sweet mouth. The colonel was broad-chested and tall and very upright in bearing. He was bald and had a thick white mustache, which drooped past the corners of his mouth almost to his chin. He looked very distinguished. He looked like an older version of Susanna’s father. The clergyman was shorter and thinner. He had fine gray hair and eyeglasses and supported himself with a cane.

Her grandparents, Susanna thought, gazing one at a time at the three strangers.

She dipped into a curtsy.

And then the lady came hurrying toward her, both hands outstretched, and Susanna set her own in them.

“Susanna,” the lady said. “Oh, my dear, I believe I would have known you anywhere. You look just like your mother, though surely you have something of the look of my son too. Oh, my dearest, dearest girl. I knew you were not dead. All these years I have said it, and now I know that I was right.”

Her chin wobbled and her eyes filled with tears.

“Please do not cry, ma’am,” Susanna said, hearing a gurgle in her own throat. “Please do not.”

“Grandmama,” the lady said. “Call me Grandmama. Please do.”

“Grandmama,” Susanna said.

And then of course, there was no way of stopping the tears of either of them from flowing-and somehow they had their arms about each other, Susanna and this stranger who was not a stranger at all but Papa’s mother.

Peter was clearing his throat, though not in an attention-seeking way. So was the Reverend Clapton, who was leaning on his cane with both hands. Lady Markham and Edith were smiling with happiness. Mr. Morley looked as if he were in raptures. Theodore was beaming genially.

The colonel withdrew a large white handkerchief from a pocket of his coat, blessing his soul rather fiercely as he did so, held the handkerchief to his nose, and blew into it loudly enough to wake the dead.

“This is very pleasant, Peter,” his mother said, sinking into the best chair, which he had drawn near the fire in the library. “Just the two of us together for a cozy chat. It does not happen often enough.”

He seated himself across from her. He had asked her to join him in the library after almost everyone else had retired for the night and only a few of the younger people were still amusing themselves in the music room.

“You are warm enough, Mama?” he asked her.

“I am,” she said. “My love, it was very naughty of you to leave the house this morning to deliver one of your invitations and not return until late in the afternoon. However, you were very attentive to Miss Flynn-Posy this evening. She is a sweet girl, is she not?”

“Very,” he agreed. “And doubtless she will make some man a wonderful wife someday soon. But she will not be mine.”

She looked a little surprised at such a categorical statement. But she smiled as she relaxed back against the cushions.

“You may well change your mind during the coming days,” she said.

“I will not change my mind,” he told her. “I have already chosen the woman I wish to marry.”

He watched her eyes light up with interest.

“Peter?” She clasped her hands to her bosom and sat up straighter.

“I am just not sure she will have me,” he said.

“Oh, but of course she will have you, whoever she is,” she cried. “You know you are one of the greatest matrimonial prizes-”

He held up a hand.

“Mama,” he said, “she is Susanna Osbourne.”

“Who?” She sat back again, all the animation draining from her face.

“William Osbourne’s daughter,” he said. “I love her, and I mean to have her if she will have me. I met her during the summer-she was staying with the Countess of Edgecombe not far from Hareford House. I saw her again in Bath when I went there with Lauren and Kit to attend Sydnam Butler’s wedding breakfast. And I have been with her today. She is at Fincham Manor for Christmas. Her grandparents have come there to meet her. I have invited them all to the ball here on Christmas night.”

She licked her lips. Her hands, he noticed, were gripping the arms of the chair.

“I suppose she set her cap at you,” she said. “If she has you believing she will not have you, Peter, that is just her cunning, believe me. You cannot seriously-”

“She wanted to have nothing to do with me during the summer,” he said, “after she had heard my name.”

Her lips moved, but she did not speak.

“Mama,” he asked, and it was an enormously difficult question to ask, “what was your relationship with Mr. Osbourne?”

“My?-” She bristled suddenly. “You are surely being impertinent, Peter. I am your mother, I would have you remember, even if you are now grown up.”

“You were lovers,” he said.

“How dare you!” Her eyes widened.

“Just as you and Grantham were,” he said. “Except that then you told me it was the only time it had happened since my father died and that it had happened because you were lonely and could not help yourself. And yet it had been going on for a long time, and on the occasion when I saw the two of you together, you were here, in my home, with both Bertha and her mother as my guests under the same roof.”

“Peter!” She looked ashen.

She had admitted only that one lapse to him at the time. He had learned differently from other people, but he had never confronted her with his knowledge. She had been quite broken up, and he had been distraught. Good God, she was his mother.

“Lady Grantham doubtless knew about the affair,” he said, “but all her lady’s education had taught her to turn a blind eye. Heaven knows what suffering and what humiliation she bore in silence. Bertha certainly knew even before I was fool enough to blurt out to her what I had just discovered. But she had been trained by her mother and had accepted her father’s infidelity long before I told her about it.”

Worse, Bertha had gazed at him uncomprehendingly as he spoke and had then asked him if all men were not like her father. When he had assured her that he was not, that he would be faithful to her until death, she had actually recoiled from him and told him what a child he was-though he was two years her senior. She had no intention, she had told him, of tying herself to him for life once she had performed the duty of presenting him with a son, perhaps two. He surely could not be so naïve as to ask it of her.

“And my uncles knew,” he said, “and were only chagrined that you had neglected to lock your door.”

They had told him in no uncertain terms that it was time he accepted some of the realities of life. And yet they were the ones who had sheltered and educated him all through his boyhood. He was a naïve child, they had told him-the same words Bertha had used-and had better keep his mouth shut about what he had seen and get ready to announce his engagement the following day, as planned. It was time he grew up.

Instead he had summoned every member of the house party to the drawing room within the hour and announced that there was to be no engagement and that they would all kindly leave Sidley before noon the next day. He had told his uncles that they were absolved of all future obligations toward him since he was now an adult and was no longer in need of either their guardianship or their advice.

His mother he had left to her tears-and to Sidley. He had bolted only one day after his guests.

He had not excused her. He had not even believed her lie-he had accepted that her affair with Grantham was of long standing. But he had believed that she had loved Grantham. Now he wondered if that had been so, or if it had mattered anyway. Grantham had been a married man -and the two of them had been prepared to arrange a marriage between their offspring.

She was clinging tightly to the arms of her chair now, gazing at him with wide-eyed indignation.

“But it is not about Grantham that I wish to speak,” he said. “It is about Mr. Osbourne. You did have an affair with him, did you not? But something happened to end the liaison. My guess is that he ended it. Had he told you about his past before then? Or did you find it out some other way? However it was, you threatened to go to Sir Charles with your knowledge.”

He had no proof of any of this, it struck him suddenly. It would be terrible indeed if he were wrong and had made such accusations against his own mother. And yet he longed to be proved wrong.