And she was aware of Christmas, that season of love and family and peace and generosity.
It was all, she thought, simply magical.
“A penny for them,” Peter said as they twirled about a corner, and she remembered that he had said that to her once before, after their walk to the waterfall. She had been feeling melancholy then.
“You do belong here,” she said. “I am so glad I have seen you here in your own proper milieu. I think your dream is within your grasp.”
He smiled as he twirled her again-and somehow they ended up outside the ballroom doors, and he was taking her by the hand and striding purposefully off with her in the direction of the hallway. Except that they did not go all the way there, but stopped outside a closed door, which he opened, and then proceeded inside before he closed the door firmly behind them.
It was a library, she could see, a beautiful, cozy room dimly lit by a fire burning in the hearth and a single branch of candles on the mantel.
“Peter?” she said. “The waltz? My grandparents…”
“…know that I am bringing you here,” he said. “At least, your grandfathers do, and I suppose your grandmother does too. She smiled very sweetly at me in the receiving line.”
He released her hand and strode over to the fire and busied himself with poking it into fresh life.
Susanna went a little closer herself and sat on the edge of a chair.
Her grandparents knew?
But they did not know…
He straightened up and stood gazing into the fire, his back to her. She waited for him to speak. And she ached with love for him. And with a knowledge of his kindness, his tenderness, his passion, his very essence.
“My mother drove your father to his death,” he said.
Ah, so he knew? But surely he had not known two days ago.
“He killed himself, ” she said. “He might have made a different choice.”
“She has lived with remorse ever since,” he said, “a fact that does not, of course, excuse what she did. I love her, Susanna. I always have, and I always will. Love, I have discovered, does not judge. It just is.”
“My mother and my father did dreadful things,” she said. “Among other things they broke the hearts of my grandparents. They caused the death of my uncle. But I have always loved them both though I never knew my mother.”
“What I mean,” he said, resting one hand on the high mantel and dipping his head forward, “is that I will never renounce her, Susanna. I will always visit her, and she will always be welcome here, though it will not be her home for much longer. We will be finding somewhere for her to live in London. If I were ever asked to choose between her and you, I would not do it. I would refuse. One cannot choose between love and love. One can choose only by judging one choice better, more worthy, than the other.”
She swallowed.
“Peter,” she said, “you do not have to make a choice. I am going back to school in a few days’ time. My grandparents want me to go and live with them, but I have said no. I will gladly spend holidays with them. I will write to them constantly, but I will not live with them. Or with you.”
His head dipped even farther forward, and there was a lengthy silence between them while she listened to the waltz music coming from the ballroom. Then he straightened up and turned to look at her.
“Tell me you do not love me,” he said.
She shook her head slowly.
“ Tell me.”
“Love does not have anything to do with anything,” she said.
“I beg to disagree,” he said. “Love has everything to do with everything. Tell me you do not love me and I will take you back to the ballroom and we will not see each other again after this evening. Tell me, Susanna. But tell me the truth.”
She had never seen him so serious. His face looked drawn and pale in the candlelight. His eyes were intense on hers.
“Peter,” she said, looking sharply down at her hands, “it would be distasteful, even sordid, when your mother and my father…”
“…were lovers,” he said. “Did it seem sordid at Barclay Court? Did it seem sordid at the dower house two days ago? It is an ugly fact, and it should make any connection between you and me somewhat distasteful. But we cannot do anything to change the past. It is as it is. Are we willing to give up the present and the future because of it? Life is not perfect, Susanna. We can only live the reality of what is. It would not be possible without love. I know it is something of a cliché to say that love makes all things possible, but I believe it does. It is not a magic wand that can be waved over life to make it all sweet and lovely and trouble-free, but it can give the energy to fight the odds and win.”
She raised her eyes to his.
“And love is something we have in abundance,” he said. “Tell me if I am wrong.”
She said nothing.
“Not just a sweet, sentimental, romantic kind of love,” he said, “though there is that too. You have the gritty kind of love, Susanna, which would sacrifice your own happiness if necessary and carry on with life without bitterness. And I have learned a great deal about it in the last little while. I love my family and my home. And I love you.”
“Peter,” she said, but she shook her head and could say no more. She bit her lower lip.
“Are you going to destroy our love,” he said, “just because I am wealthy and titled and you are a schoolteacher-though you are something of an heiress too, I was informed yesterday. And just because I am Whitleaf? Just because I will always honor my mother? Just because she and your father once sought comfort for their loneliness with each other?”
She closed her eyes.
“Or are you going to marry me?” he asked her. “Are you going to make three elderly people in the ballroom very happy by allowing me to make an announcement tonight?”
“Oh, Peter!” She looked up sharply. “That is grossly unfair.”
He stared grimly back at her. And then he smiled. And then grinned.
“It is rather, is it not?” he said. “But will you? Make them happy, that is?”
She had simply despised all those girls in Somerset who had melted beneath his every smile-until, that was, she had realized that it was his sheer likability they had responded to. But even so…
Was she to become one of them?
“What does your mother have to say about this?” she asked him. “Have you told her?”
“I have,” he said. “My mother has been possessive, a little domineering, even selfish, in her dealings with me during my lifetime, Susanna, but there is no doubt in my mind that she loves both my sisters and me totally. She will love my wife rather than lose me. I cannot promise you an easy relationship with her, but I believe I can assure you that it will not be impossible-unless it is to you.”
She gazed at him. Was this really possible after all, then? Or was she listening with her heart rather than with her common sense?
Was it with one’s heart that one ought to listen?