He jumped to his feet. “I shall go to him immediately,” he said, “if you will excuse me, Miss Osbourne, Lord Whitleaf, Mama-in-law. But I am sure you all will excuse the natural anxieties of a new father.”

“Thank you, Lawrence,” Edith said. “You are very good.”

Had the circumstances been different, Peter would doubtless have been vastly diverted by the fussy but seemingly good-hearted Morley and by the relationship between him and Edith, who looked as if she might be genuinely fond of him. But Peter was feeling Susanna’s distress-and that of his lifelong neighbors too.

“Markham would not let you-or even me-see your papa,” Lady Markham said after Morley had closed the door behind him, “because…well…”

“I understand,” Susanna said. “He shot himself in the head. But he was all I had in the world, and I was not allowed to go near him. And then there was to be the indignity of his funeral. I suppose I wanted to put as much distance between all of it and myself as I possibly could.”

“You did not even say good-bye to me, ” Edith said. “First there was all the dreadful upset in the house and I was not allowed to leave my room even to go as far as the nursery. And then, when I sent Nurse to fetch you, she could not find you. And then nobody could find you. Oh, I am sorry.” She leaned back in her chair. “Your suffering was obviously many, many times worse than mine. And you were only twelve. You appeared very grown-up to my eleven-year-old eyes, but you were incapable of making any mature decisions. I just wish-ah, never mind. I am so happy to see you again and to know that life has worked out well for you. You are actually a teacher in a girls’ school. I am quite sure you must be a good teacher.”

Incredibly, the conversation turned to that subject as they debated the advantages and disadvantages of sending girls to school rather than having them educated at home.

They were not going to probe any more deeply into Susanna’s reasons for running away, Peter thought, and she was not going to elaborate. And they were not going to mention the letters William Osbourne had left behind-and she was not going to ask.

It seemed strange to him that she did not want to know more about them, that she was not frantic to discover what her father had had to say in the last hour or so of his life, when he had known he was about to end it. In Sydney Gardens, after the first moment when she had looked as if she were about to faint, she had spoken of Pandora’s box and appeared quite reluctant to pursue the matter.

In some ways perhaps it was understandable. All these years she had believed that her father died without leaving any clue to his motive or feelings, without saying good-bye to her or making provision for her. Now she knew that he had left something behind. But there was certainly something to be said for the old proverb about letting sleeping dogs lie, especially when eleven years had passed.

The moment for any meaningful truth to be spoken seemed almost to have passed now too. They had all settled, it seemed, into the polite and amiable conversation typical of any afternoon call.

He supposed he ought not to interfere further. He had half bullied Susanna into coming here. He had kept his promise to Edith. All three ladies would perhaps now be satisfied, Lady Markham and Edith in knowing that she was alive and well and happily settled, Susanna in knowing that they had not hated her or abandoned her without an effort to find her. If her running away and Lady Markham’s overheard words had not been quite satisfactorily explained, well, perhaps they were all content never to dig deeper.

He ought not to interfere. None of this was any of his business.

He interfered nevertheless.

“I was telling Miss Osbourne a short while ago, ma’am,” he said into a momentary lull in the conversation, “about the letters discovered inside a ledger in Mr. Osbourne’s desk after his death.”

Three pairs of eyes turned upon him in something that looked like reproach. Then Susanna closed hers briefly.

“Yes,” Lady Markham said. “There were two, one addressed to Markham and one to Susanna.”

“What did he say?” Susanna asked, her voice terribly strained. “Did he explain why he did it?”

“I believe he did,” Lady Markham said while Edith set down her plate. “It was addressed to Lord Markham, you must understand, Susanna, not to me. I- we -will always remember your father with respect and even affection. He was a good and efficient secretary.”

“But you did see the letter?” Susanna asked.

“Yes,” Lady Markham admitted, “I believe I did.”

“What did it say?” Susanna asked. “Please tell me.”

Something struck Peter suddenly and he got to his feet.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would all prefer it if I were not here since this has nothing whatsoever to do with me, has it? Shall I leave the room? May I wait for Miss Osbourne-”

But Lady Markham had raised one staying hand and he sat again.

“No,” she said, her voice sounding weary. “There is no need to go. There was something in your father’s past, Susanna, something that had remained hidden for years but had finally come to light. Things were becoming ugly for him. He thought shame would be brought down upon you and himself and upon Markham for having employed him and housed him. He thought, I suppose, that he would be dismissed in disgrace and would have no further means of support for himself and a young daughter. He could see no other way out but to do what he did. That is all I remember. It was very tragic, but nothing can be done now to change the unfortunate outcome.”

It all seemed a little thin and evasive to Peter. I believe I did. That is all I remember. Would not every word of a suicide note be seared on the brain of anyone who had read it-especially when the man had lived and worked and shot himself in one’s own home?

“And my letter?” Susanna asked softly.

“To my knowledge it was not opened,” Lady Markham said.

“Was it destroyed?” Susanna asked.

“I do not know.” Lady Markham blinked rapidly. “I cannot imagine Markham burning it, but I do not know.”

“Perhaps Theo knows, Mama,” Edith suggested. “Oh, surely it is still in existence.”

“It is probably as well if it is not,” Susanna said. She got to her feet, and Peter rose too. “If my father did anything so very wrong before I was born, it seems to me that he atoned for it with a life of hard work and loyal service to Sir Charles. I do not want to know what it was he did. I do not want to know who…Oh, it does not matter. I would rather leave him in peace. I do thank you both for receiving me and for the tea, but I must go now. I have been away from the school for a whole afternoon and must not neglect my duties any longer.”

“Susanna,” Edith said, jumping up too, “do call on us again. Perhaps we can go walking together or shopping. Perhaps-”

“No,” Susanna said. “My teaching duties occupy me almost all day every day, Edith, and there is the Christmas concert coming up to keep me even busier. I had last evening off and this afternoon. I have used up my quota of free time for quite a while. I…You have your husband and son now to occupy your life. We move in different worlds. It would be best to leave it that way.”

Edith folded her hands at her waist. She looked hurt.

“I shall write to you,” she said. “I daresay you will be able to find a few spare minutes in which to read a letter.”

“Thank you.” Susanna gave her a tight smile.

“This has been a pleasure,” Lady Markham said. “You will never know, Susanna, how many times over the years I have lain awake wondering what happened to you, wondering if you were alive or dead and if we could have done anything more at the time to find you. I am delighted that you came. You will see her safely back to Miss Martin’s school, Whitleaf?”

“I will, ma’am,” he said, bowing.

But it seemed to him as they stepped out onto the street a few minutes later that the visit had not settled a great deal. Perhaps it did not have to, though. Susanna seemed not to want to find out exactly what had happened eleven years ago and why. Perhaps the comfort of knowing that her father had written to her was enough. It would not be enough for him, but that was not the point, was it?

And at least the visit had given pleasure to Lady Markham and Edith and had perhaps persuaded Susanna that she had not been the unwanted burden she had thought she was.

“Are you glad you came?” he asked, drawing her arm through his.

She turned her head to look at him briefly.

“Yes,” she said. “I would have been afraid to set foot beyond the school doors for fear of running into them. Now I have come face-to-face with them and discovered that they are just people and just as I remember them. Edith is pretty, is she not? I hope she will be happy with Mr. Morley.”

“Even though you never could be?” He chuckled.

“But I was not asked to be, was I?” She laughed too.

It was good to hear her laugh again.


And so the end had come. She might have been celebrating her betrothal now. Instead she was about to say good-bye.

By her own choice.

Susanna knew as they walked along Great Pulteney Street in silence and turned onto Sydney Place that memories of her visit to Lady Markham and Edith would return to haunt her for some time to come, along with her decision not to press on with inquiries into the contents of her father’s letter to Sir Charles Markham or into the possible continued existence of the letter he had written her.

But she could not think of any of that now.

Her heart was heavy. She felt that with every step she took she trod on it, increasing her pain.

Yet at the beginning of the afternoon she had been so hopeful that it could all end cheerfully and amicably. The fact that she loved him was of little significance. Given the circumstances of her life, it would have been strange indeed if she had not fallen in love with him. She would recover. How could she not? A happy marriage between them would be impossible for all sorts of reasons, and she would rather lose him altogether and forever than have an unhappy marriage with him.

But, oh, at the moment it was very hard to think such sensible thoughts. In an hour’s time she would think them, perhaps. Tonight she would think them, and next week, and next month. But now…

“I shall be making an early start for London in the morning,” he said as they turned onto Sutton Street and the school came into sight.

“Yes,” she said. “There cannot be much to keep a visitor in Bath, especially at this time of year.”

“I have spent a pleasant few days here, though,” he said.

“I am glad.”

They spoke to each other like cheerful, polite strangers.

“It has been good to see you again,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “we will meet again sometime.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant.”

Their footsteps slowed and then stopped altogether before they turned onto Daniel Street.

“Susanna,” he said, his hand covering hers on his arm, though he did not turn his head to look down at her. “I want you to know before I leave that I do care for you. I know you do not like me half the time or approve of me the other half, but I do care. I think we were friends once. I think in many ways we still are. But when we became more than friends on that one afternoon, it really was more. I was not just a lustful man taking advantage of being alone with an innocent woman. I cared for you. I know you do not want me or need me. I know you are happy with the life you have. But I think perhaps in some way you have cared too, and I wanted you to know that…Well. Was there ever a more muddled monologue, and just at the time when I most wanted to be eloquent and say something memorable?”

“Oh, Peter,” she said, clinging to his arm, “I do like you. Of course I do. And of course I approve of most of what I see in you. How could I not? You are always so very kind. And I care for you too.”

“But not enough to marry me?” he asked her, still not looking at her.

“No.” It was easier just to say no than try to explain-it was impossible, anyway, to explain all her reasons. “I do thank you, but no, we would not suit.”

“No,” he said softly, “I suppose not. I will leave you here, then.”

“Yes.” Panic grabbed at her stomach, her knees, her throat. She slid her hand from his arm.