“I suppose,” she said, “they did no more than your father would have done if he had lived.”
“Except that then there would have been a relationship,” he said. “Perhaps there would have been some sharing. Some love.”
He was turning at the fork in the lane as he spoke. Perhaps he would not have spoken so unguardedly if he had not been thus occupied. Good Lord, he did not usually even think such abject thoughts. He felt quite embarrassed.
“You missed your father,” she said softly.
He glanced down at her. “You cannot miss what you never had, Miss Osbourne,” he said. “I do not even remember him.”
“I missed my mother,” she told him. “Yet she died giving birth to me.”
Ah.
“It is odd, is it not,” he said, “to miss people one never knew-or knew so far back that there is no conscious memory left. I was inundated with love from my mother and sisters, and yet perversely I wanted a father’s love. Did your father love you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “but I ached for my mother. I used to weave dreams about her. I could always picture her arms reaching out to me, and I could always hear her voice and smell roses when she was near. But I never could see her face. Is that not strange? Sometimes even the imagination lets one down. How foolish!”
She looked away and fell silent, and it seemed to him that she was suddenly as embarrassed as he had been a couple of minutes ago at making such an admission about the child she had been.
Neither of them said any more on the subject-they were approaching Barclay Court, and Edgecombe and the countess were walking across the lawn before the house to meet them.
But something subtle had changed between them, he sensed.
Perhaps everything.
They had shared something of themselves with each other and he would never be able to return to a relationship of simple banter with her. They had, in other words, taken a step toward friendship with each other-as he had wanted. And yet the realization was slightly unsettling. Banter was safer. So was flirtation.
“Miss Osbourne,” he said as he drew the curricle to a halt just before the others came up to them, “ is it possible for us to be friends, do you think?”
“But we are to be here for only twelve more days,” she said.
“You brought her back in one piece, I see, Whitleaf,” Edgecombe said, striding up to the vehicle and reaching up a hand to help her down. “Congratulations. Frances would have been upset with you if you had not.”
“And you are not looking nearly as frightened as you were when you left here, Susanna,” the countess said. “Did you enjoy the ride? And your visit?”
Peter declined their invitation to go inside the house for refreshments. He would be expected back at Hareford House, he told them, and left after bidding them all a collective farewell.
This time, he noticed, Susanna Osbourne did not hurry into the house without a backward glance. She stood with the other two to watch him on his way.
He had also noticed she had not said that it was impossible for them to be friends.
Or that it would be possible either.
It struck him as he drove away that perhaps it would be better if she had protested. He was not at all sure that friendship was safe.
It was a surprise to Susanna to discover that she had actually enjoyed the afternoon-not just the part of it she had spent with Miss Honeydew, but all of it.
She was even more surprised to discover that she actually rather liked Viscount Whitleaf. He might be a basically shallow man who liked nothing better than to flirt with every woman he set eyes upon, but he also had a good sense of humor. More important, he was definitely a kind man-and not totally indolent either. He had actually mended Miss Honeydew’s fence and cleaned out her old stable. He had taken her bad-tempered little dog for a walk. He had been careful not to embarrass her when he had discovered her asleep in her chair while Susanna was still reading to her. And then, at her urging, he had eaten three of the cakes she called her housekeeper’s specialty even though it must have been clear to him after the first bite that they were undercooked and doughy at the center.
She had discovered when she had found herself quite unable to resist asking him about his childhood, just as if she knew nothing at all about it, that indeed he had been cosseted by his mother and all his sisters and ruled by his male guardians. He could not be blamed in any way, then, for what had happened to her father. And she could not blame him simply for having the name Whitleaf.
But despite the softening of her attitude toward him, Susanna could not see any possibility of their becoming friends. It was an absurd idea. They had nothing whatsoever in common.
And yet the idea had a certain appeal. She had never had a male friend. Mr. Huckerby and Mr. Upton, the art master, were not quite friends, though they were colleagues with whom she shared a mutual respect. And Mr. Keeble was just a friendly acquaintance, a sort of father figure as he guarded the door of the school from every imaginable or imaginary wolf.
In the coming days she saw further evidence of Lord Whitleaf’s kindness. After dinner at the Raycrofts’ one evening, he offered to take the one empty place at a card table that no one else seemed eager to fill even though he knew that his partner was to be old Mrs. Moss, who was deaf and indecisive and invariably played the wrong card when she did make a decision. And though the two of them lost all five of the hands they played, he succeeded in keeping everyone at the table amused and in convincing Mrs. Moss that it was his clumsy play that had ensured their defeat.
And when, after church on Sunday, Susanna overheard the vicar greet Miss Honeydew and tell her how gratifying it was to see her at church despite the rain that had been falling earlier, she also heard Miss Honeydew tell him that Viscount Whitleaf had brought a closed carriage to her cottage early enough that she had had time to get ready to come.
The Earl of Edgecombe told Frances and Susanna after he had taken Mr. Raycroft and the viscount on a tour of the home farm one morning that when they had passed the laborers’ cottages and he had stopped to call upon one of his men who had cut his hand rather badly the week before, the viscount had wandered off to talk with some of the wives who were outside their homes pegging out their washing, it being Monday and therefore laundry day. He had been discovered half an hour later, without his coat or hat, perched on a ladder held by one woman and two children and making an adjustment to a line that dragged too close to the ground when weighed down by wet clothes. All the neighborhood women and children had been gathered around, calling up advice.
“And of course,” the earl added, chuckling, “they were all gazing worshipfully up at him too-when he did not have them all doubled up with laughter, that was.”
And he did not forget that he wanted to be Susanna’s friend.
She saw him every day. They never spent longer than half an hour alone together at a time-he was too discreet for that, and if he had not been, she would. She certainly did not want to arouse any gossip in the neighborhood. Nor did she want to make Frances uneasy. But almost always when they met he contrived to exchange a few private words with her or to take her apart from the company for a short while.
She came to look forward to those brief interludes as the highlight of her days.
After playing cards with Mrs. Moss at the Raycrofts’ dinner, for example, he approached Susanna, asked if he could fetch her a cup of tea, and when she said yes, told her that perhaps she ought to come with him if Dannen would excuse her so that he would be sure to add just the right amount of milk and sugar.
She had been seated beside Mr. Dannen for all of an hour, listening to stories about his Scottish ancestors, some of which she had heard before.