Drops of Gold (17 page)

“I assure you, Miss Wood”—How it rankled to call her that when he still thought of her as Marion—“
that
will not happen again.”

She mouthed a silent “Oh.” Marion’s hand dropped to her heart. All the color drained from her face, and for a fraction of a moment, she seemed to sway. Before Layton could so much as reach out for her, she steadied herself. She looked into his eyes once more, hers filled with confusion and pain.

Layton shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, the temptation to hold her to him, to kiss away her suffering, almost too great to resist.

“I believe it is growing cold, sir.” Marion’s eyes dropped to her feet, her voice nearly too quiet to hear. “I’ll return to the house. And . . . warm up . . .” She didn’t move for a moment or look up.

“A good idea.” Layton forced himself to turn back toward the river. He couldn’t bear to see Marion so downcast.

He stepped closer to the water, holding his breath as he waited to see what she would do. After a moment of thick silence, he heard her steps slowly crunching in the snow. As he watched the flowing waters of the Trent, a single yellow-tinged leaf floated closer to him.

“I’ve found a Drop of Gold, Mar—Miss Wood,” Layton said and heard her footsteps stop.

He looked over his shoulder at Marion and saw her do the same.

“Would you like me to fish it out?”

She shook her head, a completely unfamiliar bleakness in her eyes. “No, Mr. Jonquil.”

“But—”

“It’s only a dead leaf, sir,” she said quietly. “What good would it do?” Then, silently, shoulders slumping, she walked away.

“Yes, Miss Wood?”

Marion froze on the spot and felt the blood drain from her face. “I’m sorry, sir,” she answered shakily. “I didn’t realize . . . I hadn’t thought . . . I hadn’t expected you to be in here. I apologize for interrupting you.”

She managed the entire halting speech without once looking up at him. There was no need, really. She knew precisely what she would have seen. He’d be seated at his desk, reading papers or entering items in an account book, a pensive, brooding look on his face, golden hair a little mussed. Her heart would break if she had to look at him.

“Was there something you wanted?”

It didn’t do to want things, she thought to herself. She had learned that lesson rather abruptly, rather painfully only two mornings before. She’d allowed her hopes to soar to new heights the night Layton had kissed her. She had thought he felt as much during that kiss as she had and that what he was communicating was truly the message he meant to send. The very next morning, she’d come crashing back to reality.

I assure you that will not happen again
, he’d said as though he’d found kissing her utterly repulsive. Then he’d rebuffed her for the closeness that seemed to have grown between them. She hadn’t realized until that morning along the banks of her beloved river that words could inflict physically painful wounds. Her heart still ached. Physically. Painfully.

“I . . .” She took a fortifying breath, suddenly nervous to so much as speak in front of him. Marion knew she’d have no trouble being an appropriately humble servant from then on. Nothing crumbled a young lady’s pride like complete and utter rejection. It had most certainly put her firmly in her place. “I was returning
this
, sir.” She hastily placed a precisely folded square of linen on the desk she knew Layton sat at then retreated a few steps almost frantically.

Every inch of her wanted to flee, run before he could hurt her more. But she was a servant, an employee, something he’d quite pointedly reminded her of. She couldn’t leave until he dismissed her. So she stood still and aching, spine stiff and straight, eyes focused on the floor.

He didn’t reply immediately, and she didn’t dare look at him for a reaction. Knowing he sat there, completely indifferent to her—or, worse, thoroughly repulsed by her—made her ache. The pain that radiated through her when she thought of all that had occurred was at times almost overwhelming.

“Caroline and I have been invited to the Park this evening.” Layton used precisely the tone the master of the house would use when addressing a servant. Marion’s heart broke further at the sound, but she didn’t flinch. She prayed her pain wasn’t written all over her face. “As Mater is expecting it to be a late night, she has wisely suggested Caroline retire in the nursery there. There is no governess at Lampton Park, so you will be accompanying her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you and Caroline ever have your birthday cake?”

The question was so unexpected and so quiet that Marion looked up at him. He wasn’t watching her; his eyes were instead fixed on the glowing coals in the fireplace. He looked bothered by something.

“No, sir.” She’d managed to convince Caroline that she’d had too much cake of late, what with Caroline’s birthday, and that they ought to postpone the treat. She didn’t happen to tell Caroline she intended to postpone it indefinitely.

“You should.” Layton’s eyes turned toward her. “It would certainly be an acceptable indulgence.”

An acceptable indulgence? This after his speech about the unacceptable friendship that had arisen between them? He watched her, his expression unreadable. Was it possible he was laughing at her? That he knew what she’d come to imagine about his feelings for her and found it amusing? Amusing that the governess of all people fancied him in love with her?

Marion lifted her chin a fraction, forced her lips to not quiver, and summoned the tiny shred of dignity she felt she still possessed. She focused her eyes somewhere over his left shoulder as was proper for a servant. “I know my place, sir. I have been quite firmly put back there, and I assure you I have no intention of wandering from it again.”

“M—”

“If I may be excused, sir. I will need to pack a few things for Caroline if she is to be away from her room tonight.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Marion didn’t allow her gaze to shift or her posture to slip. The increasingly familiar sting of tears behind her eyes grew tenfold, but she didn’t allow a single drop to fall. She tensed her jaw to keep it from quivering and managed to keep her head held high.

She thought she heard Layton sigh. Then, in a somewhat strangled voice, he said, “Of course, Miss Wood. I am certain you have many things to do.”

How she managed to reach the nursery wing without running or crying, Marion never knew. But when she saw her thrice-daily tray sitting beside the door bearing her usual cold midday offering, the tears began flowing anew. She would take another meal alone at the school table. She’d been received coldly by the staff before, but after her questionable inclusion in the family dinner on Caroline’s birthday, she’d been positively unwelcome below stairs.

So much for her goal of gaining entry into that world, knowing she’d also lost claim to the one above stairs. Layton’s attentiveness in the two months she’d been at Farland Meadows had lulled her into thinking she hadn’t entirely lost her grip on the Polite World. Oh, how she’d been shown the folly of that assumption. As penance, she would now be entirely alone.

Caroline was five, so Marion could plan on spending the next eleven or twelve years closeted in the nursery with absolutely no one but the child for company. No wonder so many nurses had come and gone at Farland Meadows. It was a lonely, miserable existence, made vastly worse by her own poor decisions.

For a fraction of a moment, she was tempted to seek out another position in a household with less animosity amongst the servants and with anyone but Layton as her employer. But then Caroline’s innocent, pleading face filled her thoughts, along with the heartwrenching question she’d asked the day they’d met: “Are you going to leave me too?” Marion knew she could never leave. She’d simply endure the isolation and love the child and hope it was enough.

* * *

Marion brought Caroline to the drawing room of Lampton Park shortly after dinner that evening. Only two ladies were present: Lady Lampton and a new arrival, Lady Cavratt. All but the youngest two Jonquil brothers were in residence, along with Lord Cavratt, who was considered an honorary member of the family. It was assumed, Marion overheard Lady Lampton say to the pretty young lady sitting beside her, that the gentlemen would linger over their port just as though they hadn’t seen one another in years rather than the handful of weeks it had actually been.

The countess, however, was mistaken. Within seconds of Marion and Caroline’s arrival, the gentlemen—a whole covey of them—stepped into the richly and tastefully appointed room.

“Papa!” Caroline cried out upon spying her father among the men whom no one with eyes could fail to identify as his brothers.

The Jonquils were all tall, golden haired, blue eyed, and, except for Layton, sleekly built. Where his brothers were trim, Layton was broad. The contrast made him stand out but not, in Marion’s admittedly biased opinion, unflatteringly so.

The one darker-haired gentleman in the group crossed almost immediately to the woman seated at the countess’s side, their mutual smiles of affection quickly identifying them as the married couple whom Lord Lampton had described at Caroline’s birthday dinner as “nauseatingly in love with one another,” though Marion was certain she’d detected a smile at the back of the earl’s eyes as he’d said it. Captain Jonquil had remarked that he’d been ill more than once when forced into the combined company of Lord Lampton and his betrothed.

Marion, after noting that her charge was quite satisfactorily settled between her father and grandmother on a sofa not too far from the fireplace, slipped into a darkened corner, as was appropriate for a governess. She would have brought her dress to work on if she hadn’t given up the entire enterprise two days earlier. Being the loveliest dressed person in the nursery, especially considering she was likely to be the
only
person in the nursery during the wedding, no longer held any appeal for her. Instead, she sat on a straight-backed chair near a planted fern and watched the stars twinkling outside a tall, diamond-paned window.

Nearly three quarters of an hour passed this way. Marion lost herself enough in memories of earlier days and happier years to render herself almost deaf to the merriment around her, almost oblivious enough to keep her own discouragement at bay.

Marion closed her eyes, quite tired of gazing at the stars as if they would offer balm to her wounded heart and shattered pride.
I assure you
that
won’t happen again.
She’d been entirely unable to rid her mind of Layton’s words or his tone when he’d said them. She still couldn’t manage to think of him as Mr. Jonquil, though she would never address him as anything but. There had been a time when she might have reasonably hoped to be given that right without being labeled presumptuous. Her situation had not always been so lowly.

She heard footsteps approaching from behind, coming to a stop not far distant. A governess was not part of such gatherings, so she kept herself still and hidden in the shadows. She would be overlooked, as she was supposed to be, and the guests would hold their conversations without realizing she was even there.

“Your description of Layton’s transformation led me to believe I’d find him back to his old self,” one of the nearby guests said to another, as if trying to prevent his being overheard. Apparently, Marion had played her role well—she was entirely unnoticed and forgotten.

“I shouldn’t have worn the lemon-yellow waistcoat,” Lord Lampton replied in his instantly recognizable drawl. “Most likely, he’s brooding in a fit of jealousy.”

“Really, Philip,” the first voice chided. “Can’t you be serious for one moment?”

Marion opened her eyes again and looked in the direction of the voices. Lord Lampton and Lord Cavratt stood facing one another, Lady Cavratt on her husband’s arm. Marion didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but listened.

“Aside from the elegance of your waistcoat,” Lady Cavratt intervened, “what do you suppose is weighing so heavily on your brother?”

“The exquisite cut of my jacket?” Lord Lampton suggested, preening himself a bit.

Marion watched Lord Cavratt’s lips twitch in spite of himself.

“Let us overlook the splendor of your wardrobe,” Lady Cavratt suggested.

“Impossible, m’dear.” Lord Lampton waved his quizzing glass as if to swat away the inconceivable suggestion.

“How soon does Sorrel arrive?” Lord Cavratt asked as if she couldn’t appear too soon.

“Friday.” A slow, besotted smile spread across Lord Lampton’s usually mocking face.

“Good,” Lord Cavratt answered shortly. “By this time next week, she will have conveniently shoved that ridiculous quizzing glass—”

“Crispin!” Lady Cavratt cut him off.

Lord Lampton spluttered back a laugh. Lord Cavratt smiled as if he would very much like to laugh along. An interesting pair, those two: one who apparently
affected
to be a frippery sort and the other who went to great lengths to appear dour.

“I believe we are supposed to be plotting against your brother Philip,” Lady Cavratt reminded the earl with a smile.

“‘Plotting against?’ You know, Catherine, there was a time when I thought you timid and impressionable,” Lord Lampton replied with a chuckle and a little less of his usual idiotic overtones.

“And there was a time, Philip, when I thought you vain, careless, and not terribly intelligent,” she quickly countered.

For this speech, Lord Cavratt kissed his wife gently on her blushing cheek, earning a smile from Lord Lampton. Lord Cavratt’s arm settled around his wife’s waist, but his eyes focused on Lord Lampton. “So what happened, do you think? With Layton, I mean?”

“I’m honestly not sure. Though I am told I am not terribly intelligent.” He bowed slightly to Lady Cavratt, who blushed deeper and leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “I assure you, he was in rare form Friday last. He smiled regularly. Laughed. Seemed much more the Layton we knew growing up. I thought he’d finally turned a corner, was getting past whatever has weighed him down all these years. Perhaps it was just my new dancing slippers—I was wearing them that evening, I should confess.”