“I must confess, Mama,” he said, “that I enjoyed my stay at Hareford House very much indeed.”
“Well, of course you did,” she said, seating herself on a chair and almost sinking out of sight amid a pile of cushions. “Though I daresay the company was not very distinguished. It is not so here either now that all the houseguests are gone. I will be glad of your company, my love.”
“Well, there are the Markhams,” he said. “I will certainly be happy to see Theo again. And there are the Harrises and the Mummerts and the Poles.”
But his mother pulled a face and made no reply.
She had always behaved graciously enough toward their neighbors, but she had always treated them too with a condescension that spoke of the social distance she felt existed between them. The Markhams were a distinguished enough family, it was true, and had always been prominent in political circles—Theo’s father had actually been a minister in the government for a number of years. But though there had been a time when his mother visited often at Fincham Manor and occasionally took him and his sisters with her, the relationship had cooled long ago. It was a pity. Theo’s mother still lived at Fincham during the winter months, and she was much of an age with his mother. They might have been friends.
“And speaking of the Markhams,” he said, suddenly thinking of something, “do you remember Mr. Osbourne?”
Her fingers stopped playing with the lace frill of one of the cushions, and she stared blankly at him.
“I cannot say I do,” she said.
“He was the late Sir Charles Markham’s secretary for a number of years,” he explained.
“Was he?” She gave the matter some thought, but then shrugged and shook her head. “Then I would not have known him, would I?”
“You scolded me once,” he said, “when he was teaching Theo and me to write in some fancy script in his study. You came dashing in and then were very upset because you had thought we were up in Theo’s room when instead we were breathing in ink fumes and probably giving ourselves a headache.”
“You had very delicate health, my love,” she said. “I always feared for you, especially if I could not find you where I expected you to be. But I do not remember that particular incident.”
“And then there was the time,” he said, “when I was home from school for a week and went over to Fincham with you—without the girls—only to discover that Theo didnothave a school holiday and Edith was away at a birthday party somewhere. I went riding off on one of the horses from the stable to run an errand with Mr. Osbourne—I daresay I told him I had your permission or else he thought that at my age I did not need it. You were so upset by the time we came back that I believe you were actually ill after we came home. It was the last time I saw him.”
“Oh?” she said. “Was he dismissed? I daresay he ought to have been.”
“He died,” he said. “Suddenly. Of a heart attack.”
“Oh?” she said. “That was unfortunate. But what can have put a mere secretary into your mind years after his death?Dobe a love and ring for the tea tray.”
He did so without answering her question. It made perfect sense, of course, that she would not remember a man who had really been no more than a glorified servant. It was even less likely that she would remember Susanna Osbourne—not that he had been about to mentionhername to his mother.
He was trying hard to forget it himself—or at least the guilt with which he remembered it.
He called upon all his neighbors in the coming weeks. The Harrises told him about their recent stay at Tunbridge Wells, the Mummerts wanted to know about all the latest fashions in London, since they were planning to spend a few weeks there in the spring, and the Poles regaled him with stories of the exploits of their numerous grandchildren. They were all perfectly amiable, but none of them issued any invitations to him to dine or play cards or join them at any other entertainment. It had never been done—he wasViscount Whitleafand as far above them in station as the stars. Everything in their manner during his visits demonstrated an almost awed respect. All of them assured him that they were deeply honored that he had called. Butheissued no invitations either—his mother would be uncomfortable, even upset, about having her house invaded by inferior company.
Herhouse!
It washis!
Dash it all, it was harder than he thought to change his way of thinking. Sidley had been his mother’s domain since her marriage. And though it had been his property for twenty-three years, for eighteen of those he had been a minor and it was only natural that his mother remain in charge.
Why the devil had he not told his uncles and his mother when he turned twenty-one that he was far too young to think of marriage but that he was at exactly the right age to take over the running of his own life and home and estate? It would have been easy then. It would have been the natural thing to do. It was what everyone had surely been prepared for.
Or why, when he had decidednotto marry, had he not told his mother quite firmly that she was going to have to find somewhere else to live than the main house at Sidley?
But of course he had been too young for all of it. His life had been effectively lived for him for twenty-one years. How could he have developed the wisdom overnight to act as he ought?
He called one day at Fincham and was delighted to find Theo at home. Edith was no longer there, of course. She had married Lawrence Morley two years ago and now lived in Gloucestershire with her husband. Lady Markham was currently there with her, lending her support after the recent birth of Edith’s first child.
Peter called several times after that first visit and sometimes went riding with his longtime friend. On one of those occasions he asked the same question he had raised with his mother.
“Do you remember Osbourne?” he asked.
“WilliamOsbourne?” Theo asked. “My father’s secretary, do you mean?”
“I rather liked him,” Peter said. “He always had time for us, if you remember. It was a pity about his death.”
