As they stepped through the stairway arch into the hall, Edgecombe and the countess were coming out of the library, all hospitable smiles when they saw him.
“Ah, there you are, Whitleaf,” Edgecombe said. “Smothers came and told us you were here—sorry about the misunderstanding, old chap. We were on our way up to join you. You are not leaving already, are you?”
“Please do not,” the countess said.
“Miss Osbourne and I are going to take a stroll outside,” Peter explained. “This sunshine is too lovely to miss.”
“You should go and see this end of the wilderness walk,” Edgecombe suggested. “It is all very picturesque—deliberately so, of course. In fact, we will come with you, will we not, Frances?”
Her hand came to rest on his sleeve.
“You were concerned yesterday,” she said, “that I had had too much exposure to the sun during the picnic. Remember?”
“Eh?” He looked down at her with a frown.
“I think I had better do the wise thing and stay indoors today,” she said.
Peter saw comprehension dawn in Edgecombe’s eyes at the same time as it dawned in his own mind.
“Oh, absolutely, my love,” Edgecombe said. “I’ll stay here with you. Will you mind, Susanna?”
“No, of course not,” she said.
“Sunstroke can be a dangerous thing,” Peter added.
And so they stepped out of the house alone together, he and Susanna Osbourne—with the blessing of the Countess of Edgecombe, it would seem.
But blessing for what?
She had not misunderstood, had she? She did not expect?…
But he would not torture his mind further or waste another moment of this suddenly precious chance to be alone one more time with Susanna Osbourne—his friend.
He offered her his arm without a word, and without looking up into his face she took it.
There was suddenly a strange—and potentially disturbing—sense of completion.
11
Susanna’s bags were almost completely packed. She had done thejob herself after breakfast, though Frances had told her not to bother, that she would have a maid sent up later to do it for her. But she had come and watched anyway—and admitted while they chatted that she would still rather do many things for herself than rely upon servants to wait upon her hand and foot.
Susanna had been feeling almost cheerful. She was genuinely looking forward to returning home—and that was what the school was to her. It was home. And the ladies and girls waiting there for her were her family.
She had determinedly thrown off the depression that had weighed her down the night after the assembly. She had spent a wonderful two weeks of relaxation in lovely, luxurious surroundings and in company with one of her dearest friends and a whole host of other amiable acquaintances. And if that were not enough, she had had her first ride in a gentleman’s curricle, she had engaged in—and won—a boat race, she had attended her very first ball—the assemblydidqualify for that name, she had decided—and she had danced all but two sets there, each with a different partner. She had even waltzed, and she had been kissed for the first time—that brief meeting of lipsdidqualify. She had decided that too. Friends of opposite gender could occasionally kiss even if the sentiment behind the gesture was affection rather than romance.
She had decided—very sensibly—that she would remember everything about these two weeks down to the last little detail, and that she would enjoy the memories rather than allow them to oppress her.
It had helped that Viscount Whitleaf had not singled her out for any particular attention during the past two days. They had been able to smile amicably at each other and even speak with each other, but as part of a group of acquaintances.
It had helped too that he had not come this morning with Mr. Raycroft and his sister and the Calverts. All four of the young ladies had hugged her when they were leaving, and Miss Raycroft and Miss Mary Calvert had actually shed a few tears. Mr. Raycroft had taken her hand in both of his and patted it kindly as he wished her a safe journey and a pleasant autumn term at school.
Ah, yes, it had helped thathehad not come too, that he had avoided actually saying good-bye to her.
And yet it had been very hard at luncheon to maintain a cheerful flow of conversation with Frances and the earl.
It had been hard to swallow her food past the lump in her throat.
It had been hard to avoid admitting to herself that she was hurt—both by his absence this morning and by the care with which he had avoided being alone with her yesterday and the day before. She knew it had been deliberate.
