Simply Magic

by Mary Balogh

  “How did you guess?” He grinned down at her. “Not when I was at home, at least. I did all sorts of things at school and university that had never been allowed at home, on the theory that what my mother and sisters did not see would not cause them grief.”

  She remembered how one of his sisters had pulled him away from the bank of the lake where he had been trying to fish with her line, horrified that he might fall in and die. An eager, active little boy had not even been allowed to sit at the water’s edge with a fishing line in his hand.

  “I cannot remember the last time I was vanquished in a boat race,” he said as they stepped onto the bridge. “Accept my most heartfelt congratulations!”

  She laughed. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

  “Unkind,” he said. “I did admit to having lost a curricle race, if you will remember.”

  “By a long nose,” she said. “I wonder how long. An elephant’s trunk stretched on the rack, perhaps?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I believe that your tongue must be sharp enough to slice through a slab of tough beef.”

  She laughed again.

  “And had you rowed before this afternoon?” he asked her. “Please say yes. My humiliation will be complete if the answer is no.”

  “A few times long ago, when I was a child,” she said. “But I have not tried it since.”

  “And where was that?” he asked.

  “Oh, where I grew up,” she said vaguely.

  They stopped by unspoken consent when they reached the middle of the bridge. She had crossed it before, on her last visit to Barclay Court, but there had been no opportunity this afternoon until now. The sun beamed down upon them from a cloudless blue sky. A slight breeze cooled her face. She could hear the river rushing beneath the bridge. If she turned her head she would see the sunlight sparkling on the lake water behind them.

  All her senses were sharpened. She could feel his body heat. She could smell his cologne. It was an intensely pleasurable feeling. She felt awash in contentment.

  “I noticed,” he said, “when I sat inside the pavilion earlier that the reflection of the house is perfectly framed in the lake water. That particular spot was obviously chosen with great care by the landscape artist. He must have been a master of his art.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “I am sure he was.”

  “Do you suppose that waterfall has been as artfully positioned as the pavilion?” he asked. “Is it there in that exact spot for maximum visual effect from here?”

  “Perhaps it was the bridge that was deliberately placed,” she suggested.

  “Or both,” he said. “My money is upon its being both.”

  “But can nature be so ordered?” she asked him.

  “Assuredly so,” he told her. “Do we not often plant flowers and vegetables in ruthlessly regimented rows and beds for our own convenience and pleasure? And can we not create a waterfall if we wish? We manipulate nature all the time. In fact, we often make the mistake of believing that we are its masters. And then a storm blows in from nowhere and lifts the roofs off our houses and floods them and reminds us of how little control we have and how helpless we are in reality. Have you noticed that once-mighty structures that have been abandoned are soon taken over by nature again? Wildflowers grow in the crevices of once-impregnable castle walls, and grass grows on palace floors where kings once entertained the elite of an empire.”

  “I find that thought reassuring more than frightening,” she said. “I have heard of how ugly some parts of the country are becoming with the slag heaps from coal mines and other waste products of industry. I do not suppose those activities will end anytime soon. But when they do end-if they ever do-perhaps nature will reclaim the land and erase the man-made ugliness and create beauty again.”

  “I have an uneasy feeling,” he said, “that if we continue to stand here, someone or other is going to feel invited to join us. I do not wish to be joined, do you?”

  “No.” She looked up at him, her cheeks warming at the admission.

  “And if we walk toward the pavilion, the same thing might happen,” he said. “I can see that there is a path beside the river on the other side of the lake. My guess is that it goes as far as the waterfall.”

  “It does. And beyond,” she told him. “It is part of the wilderness walk that begins close to the house and extends all about the lake. I have walked along parts of it with Frances, but I have never been to the waterfall. The path is rather rugged in that area and there had been a lot of rain just before I came here last time. The earl thought it might be unsafe.”

  He looked down at her thin shoes.

  “Is it too rugged,” he asked, “for someone who just won three separate boat races, including, to my eternal shame, the final one?”

  “I have always thought,” she said, “that the walk must be at its wildest and loveliest by the waterfall.”

  “We will walk there and back, then,” he said, “and hope that no one else is adventurous enough to follow us.”

  She took his arm again, and they proceeded on their way.

  Susanna wished as they walked that she could seal up every minute in a jar and take them all with her into the future. She did not believe she had ever been as happy as she was when they turned onto the river path and she could feel confident that they would be alone together for at least half an hour.

  She could not think of anyone with whom she would rather share such beauty and solitude.

  “Ah, magnificent!” Viscount Whitleaf said, stopping on the path when they were in the shade of a forest of tall trees and looking back to where the waters of the river bubbled and foamed beneath the bridge to join the calmer lake water, which was indeed sparkling in the sunshine.

  He was genuinely admiring the scenery. It was something that just a week ago she would not have expected of him. She had judged him to be a man who could be happy only when surrounded by adoring females.

  “I think Barclay Court must be one of the loveliest estates in England,” she said. “Not that I have seen many others.”

  “Or any?” He turned his head and his eyes smiled at her.

  “One other,” she said, stung. “The place where I grew up.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And where was that? You have never spoken of your childhood, have you-except that you missed your mother?”

  “It does not matter,” she said.

  She wondered what he would say if she told him and he realized that they had once been neighbors of sorts. She wondered if he would have any memory at all of that day by the lake when he had visited with his mother and sisters and they had met briefly. And she wondered if he would remember everything that had happened later.

  But a painful churning in her stomach warned her not to say any more-or think any more-about that.

  “Now, Miss Osbourne,” he said with mock severity, “one of the cardinal rules of friendship is that one withhold nothing from the friend.”

  “But that is not so,” she told him. “Even friends need private spaces, if only within the depths of their own soul, where no one else is allowed to intrude.”

  He was looking fully at her, obviously pondering the truth of what she said.

  “There are deep, dark secrets from your past that you would rather keep, then, are there?” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Very well, then. But you grew up on an estate, did you? As a daughter of the house?”

  “As daughter of a…a servant of sorts,” she said. “He was a gentleman, but he was without property or fortune and so had no choice but to work for a living. And so I suppose I am a lady by birth even if only just. Are you satisfied?”

  He smiled slowly, and it struck her that the creases at the corners of his eyes would be permanently etched there when he was older. They would be an attractive feature.

  “That I have not made a friend of a chimney sweep’s offspring?” he asked her. “That would have been enough to send me off into a fit of the vapors, would it not? The path slop
es upward rather sharply from here, I see, though there are several large, flat stones to act as steps. Are you sure you are up to the climb?”

  “Are you?” She laughed at him.

  “Earlier on,” he said, “I thought I heard the echo of something you told me several days ago, though it might have been my imagination. You are not a games teacher, by any chance, are you, Miss Osbourne? In a girls’ school?”

  “I am,” she said. “I teach games, and sometimes I cannot stop myself from participating in them. I was always good at them when I was a pupil myself. Yes, there are girls’ schools that teach more than embroidery and deportment.”

  “Heaven help us,” he said, wincing. “I was about to play the gallant and offer my hand for the climb instead of my arm. I will still do so, in fact. If I do not need to haul you up the path, you can haul me.”

  He took her hand in a firm clasp and she thought for one absurd moment that she might well weep. It seemed to her that no one had ever held her hand before, though surely her father must have done so when she was a child. There was such intimacy in the gesture, such an implied bond of trust.

  His hand was slender and long-fingered. It was also strong and warm and somehow very masculine. Something tightened in her breasts, and her inner thighs suddenly ached though they had not even begun the climb yet. Something fluttered low in her abdomen.

  She had, she admitted, grown very fond of him very fast. Belatedly it occurred to her that perhaps it had not been a good idea after all to agree to be his friend. Next week, when she was back in Bath, she was going to miss him, and she knew that the missing him would bring considerable pain, even grief.

  But there was no point in thinking of that now. It was too late to make a different decision and keep her distance from him. And she was not sure she would have decided differently even if she had known then what she knew now. Her life had been so very sheltered. She must not regret walking out into the sunshine, even if only for a brief while.

  And he was someone about whom the sun seemed to shine.

  Hand in hand they clambered up the steep path even though it was not in any way treacherous and she did not really need his support-or he hers. They stood hand in hand and breathless when they stopped halfway up to look down over the steep bank to the fast-flowing water below. The dappled surface of the river and the lights and shades cast on the greenery by the sun shining through tree branches created a stark contrast with the bright, open, calm lake still fully visible off to their left.

  The magic of it all assaulted her anew-the beauties of nature at their finest and a new friend.

  They did not exchange a word. They did not need to. Their thoughts were in perfect harmony-she could sense that. After a few minutes they resumed the climb while the rushing sound of the waterfall drowned out all other sounds-except, she noticed, the shrill song of an invisible bird.

  They scrambled the last few feet to the crest of the rise, on a level with the top of the waterfall. The view was breathtaking. Susanna could feel droplets of water cool on her face. Although the lake was still in view-as well as the other picnickers-there was an air of wild seclusion here. Perhaps it had something to do with the sound of the water.

  They stood hand in hand gazing at the waterfall until Viscount Whitleaf looked behind him.

  “Ah,” he said, “a grotto built artfully into the hillside to look like a natural cave. I almost expected to see it there. And of course it is facing in just the right direction. Capability Brown and his ilk could always be relied upon to provide such conveniences on wilderness walks. Shall we sit for a while?”

  “It ought to be cool in there,” she said hopefully. Climbing had been a warm business even though the trees had protected them from the direct sunlight for much of the way.

  The grotto was provided with a wooden bench that circled the inner wall. It was the perfect shelter from sun or wind or rain or simple weariness, a place to sit and feast the senses on the beauties provided by nature-even if man had lent a helping hand. The opening to the outside world was framed on three sides with lush green ferns.

  The waterfall was centered in their line of vision, just as the reflection of the house was from the pavilion on the lake. Ferns grew thick on the steep banks on either side and trees stretched above. There were the smells of water and greenery and earth. And of course there was the sound of rushing water-and of the song of the lone bird.

  “I like friendship,” he said softly, after they had sat in silence for several minutes. “It enables one not to talk.” He chuckled. “Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Silence is an uncomfortable thing between casual acquaintances or strangers.”

  “Like you and me the day we met,” he said. “ Were you uncomfortable?”

  “Very,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  She had taken her hand from his when they sat down in order to settle her skirts about her. Now she realized her hand was in his again, though she did not know how it had got there. Their clasped hands were lying on her skirt on the bench between them.

  “You were Viscount Whitleaf,” she said, “handsome, fashionable, obviously wealthy, sure of yourself, a man of the world.”

  “Shallow,” he added, “conceited, flirtatious.”

  “I judged too hastily,” she said.

  She was aware for several silent moments that he was looking at her.

  “And there was another reason,” she said hastily. “You were Viscount Whitleaf. I grew up not far from Sidley Park.”

  “Good Lord,” he said after a moment or two of silence. “ Osbourne. He was Sir Charles Markham’s secretary for years when Markham was a government minister. I thought of him when you were introduced to me, but Osbourne is not an entirely uncommon name. I did not dream…When I come to think of it, though, I recall that he did have a daughter. You?”

  “Yes,” she said, considerably shaken. She had really not intended telling him who she was.

  “Did we ever meet?” he asked.

  “Once,” she said. “You came down to the lake, where I was playing with Edith, but two of your sisters came and took you away. One of them did not like the fact that you were playing with me, and the other was afraid you would fall in and drown.”

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “But wait. Was there something with a fishing line?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You wanted to try mine. You thought you might have better luck than I had had, but actually I do not believe there were any fish in that lake. I never heard of anyone catching any there.”

  “That was you,” he said. “I do remember. Vaguely, anyway.”

  And it would be as well, she thought, if the memories were left there, vague and unspecific.

  “Your father died,” he said.

  She turned her head and looked sharply at him.

  “Yes.”

  “I am so sorry,” he said, “though it seems a little late to commiserate with you. It was sudden, was it not? A heart attack?”

  Ah, he really did not know, then. He really had been sheltered by all his various guardians.

  “Yes,” she said. “His heart stopped.”

  Which was certainly not a lie.

  “I am sorry,” he said again. “But tell me how you ended up as a charity pupil at Miss Martin’s school in Bath.”

  She had never spoken about her past. Deep as was her trust in her three closest friends, she had never entrusted them with the whole of her story-just as they had never revealed everything of their past to her. Friends really did need secret places inside themselves. But he already knew more than they ever had.

  She closed her eyes for a few moments.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said, squeezing her hand more tightly. “Please forgive me for arousing what are obviously painful memories.”

  She had learned to cope with her essential aloneness, not even to dwell upon it. And she did have her employment now and friends who were almost as good as family. But ther
e had been a time when she had felt like a helpless babe all alone and abandoned in a vast and hostile universe. She doubted there was any worse feeling. Even her very survival had been in question.

  “Mr. Hatchard sent me to the school,” she said. “He is Claudia Martin’s solicitor and agent in London. He sought me out when I was seeking a position through an employment agency. At first, when he asked me if I had ever been to Bath, I thought he had some employment to offer me there. But then he explained that there was a place at a school there for me if I wanted it-as a pupil. He told me that someone he represented was willing to pay my fees, that in fact I would be one of several charity pupils.”

  She could clearly remember the mingled relief and humiliation with which she had listened to his wholly unexpected offer.

  “And you accepted,” Viscount Whitleaf said.

  “I really had no choice,” she told him. “I was staring starvation in the face. I had had only one promising interview-for a position as a lady’s maid. I had said at the agency that I was fifteen though I was only twelve. But the lady who interviewed me did not believe me and dismissed me out of hand. She was not the housekeeper, as I had expected, but my prospective employer herself. She told me that since she was going to have to put up with the maid who was hired, she was going to have the choosing of her. I was terrified of her, even though she was very young herself. And yet I have always had the strange conviction that she must have had something to do with Mr. Hatchard’s finding me.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “How else would he have found me and why else would he have singled me out?” she asked. “London is teeming with destitute girls. And her name keeps popping up in connection with the school in the most puzzling way. Claudia Martin was once her governess but left in outrage at her unruly behavior and haughty manners. Then she turned up unexpectedly at the school one day after I was there and asked Claudia if she needed anything. Poor Claudia was outraged. But the school has a secret benefactor, you see. It seems never to have occurred to Claudia that perhaps it is Lady Hallmere herself, but I wonder if perhaps it is.”