“I have always loved it,” he said. “You could surely be contented there.”
“It is where thegovernessesandtutorsalways lived,” she cried.
“Then we will look around for a suitable house for you in London,” he suggested. “There will be company there for you most of the year, and plenty of entertainments, and all the shops. And you will always be welcome here as a visitor.”
She leaned back in her chair and stared at him—and there was a moment at which he was aware that her chin tilted slightly upward.
“I have always lived here in order to keep it for you,” she said. “You are my only son. I took on the responsibility when your father died, and I have not relinquished it since. I have given my life for you.”
It was, he realized, a moment when some rebuilding was possible.
“And I will be eternally grateful,” he said. “I had a marvelously secure childhood. I was never in any doubt that I was loved. And I am glad I did not marry too young. I have had the chance to live out my early manhood and find out who I am and what I want of my life, secure in the knowledge that you and my home were always here for me. But now I have arrived at that point of self-discovery, Mama, and I can set you free to enjoyyourlife in any way you choose. I know you have been lonely here.”
It was not entirely the truth that he spoke, of course, but therewastruth in it nevertheless. And despite everything, he would always love her and always be grateful that she had loved him during his childhood.
“I think,” she said, “I wouldliketo live in London.”
Perhaps she did not speak the entire truth either. And yet it struck him that she probablywouldbe happier there. And there was a certain relief in finding that she had rejected the idea of moving to the dower house.
“We will see to it after Christmas,” he said. “But I have kept you up very late, Mama. You must go to bed now. Tomorrow will be busy, I daresay.”
“Yes.”
But she did not immediately get to her feet.
“Peter,” she said, “I could never love another man as I loved your father. William Osbourne, George Grantham—they meant nothing to me, though I was fond of them both. I certainly did not mean to do anyone any harm.”
“I know you did not.”
He knew no such thing, alas, but it was not his place to pour recriminations on her head. He got to his feet and offered her his hand. When she was standing before him, small, fragile, still lovely, he kissed her forehead and then her cheek.
“Good night, Mama,” he said.
“Good night, Peter.”
She left the room without another word, her back straight, her step light and firm.
He looked toward the brandy decanter but rejected the idea of pouring himself a glass. If he started drinking tonight, he knew he would not stop until he was thoroughly foxed.
Several times during the course of Christmas Eve Susanna thought about Claudia and Eleanor and Lila and the girls who would be at the school for Christmas. They were thereright now,she thought. She tried to ground herself in the reality of that thought, but it was hard to believe in it. It was hard to believe anything that was happening around her either.
It was as if she had stepped into some strange dream.
Life had been so routine, so predictable, sodull,until the end of the summer. And yet there had been a certain contentment, even happiness, about the dullness.
Yesterday seemed unreal. Could she really have gone willingly to the dower house at Sidley Park with Viscount Whitleaf? Had she really gone to bed and made love with him there?Twice?The second time entirely initiated by her?
And today, were these strangers with whom she was spending almost all her time really turning so quickly into familiar, even dear, relatives? Was it possible to feel a close familial connection to people of whose very existence she had been hardly aware until yesterday morning?
But her grandfather Osbourne looked so very much as her father would have looked, if he had lived so long, that she would hardly have been able to drag her eyes away from him had her grandmother not had Papa’s eyes—and if she had not insisted upon holding Susanna’s hand much of the time and patting it and gazing at her in fascinated wonder. And her Grandfather Clapton really did have her own eyes, though their color had faded closer to gray than green, and she could imagine, looking at his thin gray hair, that it really had been auburn at one time. He had a way of nodding and smiling quietly, leaving most of the talking to the other two, that drew her eyes and tugged at her heart.
Grandmother and Grandfather Osbourne had no surviving children, and she was their only grandchild. Their lives must have been filled with the most terrible sadness. They had had two sons.
By running away, she thought, she had robbed them of knowing her from the age of twelve until now. But then, they were the ones who had banished her father. Not that she would judge them for that. He had interfered with their elder son’s marriage and then caused his death in a fight. She longed to know details of that fight. Had the death been entirely accidental? Had her father’s brother fallen and hit his head on a stone, for example? But she would not ask.
Her grandfather Clapton had three surviving daughters and eight grandchildren apart from Susanna. Her aunts and cousins, he told her, smiling his quiet smile. The eldest was married to his successor in the village church—andtheirson was a curate in a church not far away.
She had aunts and uncles and cousins.
