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Susa
If only A
And if only Claudia had agreed with her decision to write back to Theodore tomorrow refusing his invitation and even declining his offer to send her father’s letter.
Why did she not want to read that letter? The question woke her up fully again just when she was starting to feel drowsy.
Did she want to turn her back on her father as he had turned his on her? Was it a type of revenge for the suffering he had caused her? Did she want to hurt him even though he was not alive to feel the pain?
Papa,she thought, turning her face into her pillow.
She had not even thought of him by that name for years and years.
And finally, just before she fell asleep at last, she realized that in truth she had no choice. Having Theodore send the letter here might satisfy an empty craving within her, though she doubted even that. But there were other things to know, places to see, people to talk with.
She had to go back.
She had to hear it all, see it all, read it all.
Perhaps it could all be done without her ever having to set eyes upon Viscount Whitleaf. She had seen him only once during her childhood, after all.
And if she did by some chance see him again, well then…But her mind could not cope with that possibility. One thing at a time.
Tonight it was enough to know that she was going to go back. Enough to fill her with dread.
And yet, the decision made, she slept.
21
Susa
The fact that she had dreaded coming did not help, of course.
She had wondered how it would feel to step into the house again after all these years. When she had left it eleven years ago, her father had just killed himself and she had just heard Lady Markham describe her as a burden. She had been ru
But though it all looked startlingly familiar, it also seemed like a place she must have visited during another lifetime. She felt no great emotional co
This time, of course, she was staying in a guest chamber in the main part of the house rather than in the pretty little attic room next to her father’s. She was a guest of the family.
Edith and Mr. Morley had already arrived for Christmas, and a few other guests were expected. The whole family gave Susa
“You will want to freshen up and change for di
“Only if I may still call you Theodore,” she said.
He laughed heartily.
By the time di
“Susa
Her letter. It was in this very house-the words her father had written to her just before he died. She had come specifically to read it. And now that she was here she was almost sick with the longing to see it, to hold it, to read it. But not tonight. She needed to be wide awake and strong.
“I was going to suggest the very same thing, Mama,” Theodore said. “Will that suit you, Susa
“Yes, please,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, Theodore. And thank you for inviting me here.”
“We will talk tomorrow, then,” he said. “And later tomorrow our other guests should be arriving.”
Lady Markham walked with Susa
“I am very happy you came,” she said. “I have always felt that the story of eleven years ago was never properly ended. I have felt it even more since seeing you in Bath. Now perhaps we can all end the story, Susa
And Susa
What luxury!
But as she dressed a short while later, her teeth chattered, not so much from cold as from sick apprehension of what the morning held in store.
First, though, she had to sit through breakfast and smile and make light conversation and assure Edith-quite truthfully-that she would indeed like to go up to the nursery with her to see Jamie.
“But not yet, Ede,” Theodore said, getting to his feet at the end of what had seemed an interminable meal. “Susa
But suddenly she could not wait even long enough for him to bring it to her. She got to her feet too.
“I will come with you if I may,” she said.
“Certainly,” he said, and she followed him from the room.
But he hesitated outside a certain room, his hand on the knob, and Susa
“I’ll go in and get it,” he said, smiling kindly at her. “It will just take a minute.”
“Please,” Susa
He heaved an audible sigh and opened the door to allow her to precede him inside.
It was a disturbingly familiar room even though she had not come in here many times as a girl. Her father had used to leave the door ajar most days, however, and she had often stood outside, smelling leather and ink and listening to his deep, pleasant voice if there was someone in there with him. Often it had been Theodore, and she had listened to them talk about horses and racing or about fishing, Theodore’s voice eager, her father’s indulgent. She had always longed to push the door open and go in to join them. Perhaps her father would not have turned her away. Perhaps he would even have welcomed her and let her climb onto his knee. Perhaps-and this was a novel thought-he had felt as neglected by her as she had by him. Perhaps he had thought that as a girl she preferred to spend all her days with Edith.
She was standing at the desk, she realized, ru