But there was no more light chatter or laughter. They had served their purpose-she was now calm whereas it had been clear that she was in high distress when he first saw her.
There was no more conversation at all, in fact, as he drove them the rest of the distance, turning onto the long driveway to Sidley, turning off it again almost immediately to take a narrower, wooded trail to the dower house.
He helped her down, unhitched the horses before leading them into the stable stalls and laying out some feed for them, and then took Susanna into the house.
“It is very prettily situated,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking her by the elbow and leading her to the sitting room. “I have always loved it almost more than the main house. I have always felt at home here.”
The sitting room was also the library. There were several tall bookcases filled with books, many of them his boyhood favorites. The large sofa and chairs were of soft, ancient leather, probably in no way elegant in the eyes of the fashion sticklers, but marvelously comfortable.
He went down on one knee by the fireplace without first removing his greatcoat, and lit the fire that was already laid there.
“Come and warm your hands,” he said.
“I like this room,” she said as they stood side by side, almost shoulder to shoulder, holding out their hands to the thin flames that would soon crackle into full life. “It is cozy. I could be happy here.”
“Could you?” He turned his head and found himself in the middle of one of those moments of heightened awareness. He was sure she was blushing even though her cheeks were already rosy from the cold.
She lowered her glance and removed her bonnet. She undid the fastenings of her cloak too, though she left it around her shoulders as she sat in the chair to one side of the fire. He threw off his greatcoat and took the chair at the other side.
This, he supposed suddenly, was not at all proper.
But to the devil with propriety.
“I am glad you chose to read the letter,” he said, “and I am glad you chose to do it here. Was it very hard to read?”
She touched her middle fingers to her temples and made circles there for a while as she looked down at her lap.
“I had not realized,” she said, “what a… living thing handwriting is. It was his handwriting, and it was as familiar as his face. I felt as if I were looking at him a few minutes before his death.”
He said nothing.
“He loved me,” she said, looking up into his face and lowering her hands.
“Of course he did.”
“He thought his death would be the best thing for me, ” she said. “He was facing disgrace and perhaps worse, and he chose death for my sake. Can you imagine anything more foolish than that?”
He watched tears well into her eyes. She blinked them away.
“How could his death benefit me?” She drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “He made provision for me, and told me I would be happy.”
“Provision?” he said.
“Oh, Peter,” she said, “they are coming to Fincham today-my two grandfathers and my grandmother, all the way from Gloucestershire. But they are strangers. Whatever am I to do?”
He thought of her as a twelve-year-old in London, trying to find employment and of the same child being sent to school in Bath as a charity girl, all alone in the world. How very different her life would have been if she had waited.
He would never have met her-except on that one barely remembered occasion when they were children.
“I would not plan on doing anything if I were you,” he said. “Meet them and allow the relationship to develop from there. They are your blood kin.”
“I am so frightened,” she said. “And what a very foolish thing to say.” She sat farther back in her chair.
“It might be worth remembering,” he said, “that as they draw nearer to Fincham today, they are probably very frightened too.”
“I had not thought of that,” she said. “Do you suppose it is true?”
“If they are prepared to make such a long journey in the dead of winter just to meet you,” he said, “I would say it is undoubtedly true.”
“Oh,” she said, and she closed her eyes.
He let her rest while he poked the fire in order to disperse the flames more evenly. A shower of sparks crackled up the chimney.
“They sent him away,” she said without opening her eyes, “after he had fallen in love with his brother’s wife and then killed his brother in a fight. But she followed him and they married.”
“Your mother?” he asked, seating himself again.
“Yes,” she said. “I think it must have been a great and very painful love. One filled with guilt. I wonder if they ever knew a moment of happiness.”
Probably not. The William Osbourne he remembered had certainly not been an unfeeling brute of a man.
“He wrote,” she said, “that my mother paid the ultimate price when she died giving birth to me and that now it was his turn.”
“But why then?” he asked. “Why did he wait twelve years?”
He thought she would not answer him, and he certainly would not press. This was her story. He had no right to hear it unless she chose to tell him. But she did answer after a while.
“His secret was out,” she said. “He had recently told Sir Charles himself since someone was trying to blackmail him by threatening to expose him. But then sh-. But then that person decided to ruin him anyway by telling untrue stories that surely would have been believed when his past was disclosed too.”
It sounded, Peter thought, like something a woman might do-a scorned woman. And Susanna had been about to say she before she used the more neutral person instead. Poor Osbourne. Perhaps he had tried to find comfort in another woman’s arms, and it had cost him his life.
He was facing disgrace and perhaps worse,she had said earlier. Worse than disgrace?
Had rape been the threatened charge, then?
“It has just struck me,” she said, “that my one grandfather and grandmother lost two sons within twelve years of each other, and that my other grandfather lost a daughter. And that the circumstances must have been particularly painful for all of them.”
“And then,” he said, “they lost you when you disappeared.”
“Theodore told me,” she said, “that they searched for me but could not find me.”
She spread both hands over her face.
He knew after a few moments that she was not weeping but that it was costing her an enormous effort to control her tears. He got up out of his chair, crossed to her, and without really thinking of what he did, scooped her up into his arms, leaving her cloak behind, and sat on the sofa with her on his lap. He cradled her head against his shoulder and held it there when she buried her face against him, her hands still covering it, and wept.
He knew that she was weeping out eleven years’ worth of grief-for her mother and father, for her grandparents, perhaps for her dead uncle. And for herself. He held her and let her cry as long as she needed to. At last he offered her a handkerchief, and she took it and dried her eyes and blew her nose before putting it away in a pocket of her own.
“I am sorry,” she said, resting the side of her head against his shoulder again. “Did you even know I was at Fincham?”
“I did,” he said. “Why do you think I went there this morning?”
“Theodore said something about an invitation for his mother,” she said.
“An invitation for you all,” he said, “but especially for you. There is to be a ball at Sidley on Christmas evening. We have a houseful of guests and I have invited everyone from the neighborhood too. It will be the first grand event that I have hosted at Sidley. You must come.”