Drops of Gold (24 page)

She nodded, not pulling away from his touch. “With a book. Because I’m leaving. She said—” Marion drew in a shaky breath. “She said she never wants to see me again. And that . . . that she hates me!”

Her expression crumbled in misery. Layton pulled her into his arms. The aroma of cinnamon that always surrounded her filled his senses again. The feel of her in his embrace settled over him like a comforting blanket. He’d needed her there, needed her close again. He hated that only her injuries gave him that right and only for a fleeting moment.

“Oh, Layton, I don’t want her to hate me,” Marion whimpered. “I love her. How can I leave with her feeling this way?”

She’d called him “Layton.” Not “Mr. Jonquil” or “sir.” She even leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. He rubbed her back in slow circles, feeling her breathing even out as her sobs subsided. He knew some satisfaction in having comforted her but wished for so much more. She was leaving and taking his very heart with her.

“Perhaps you should stay awhile longer,” Layton suggested, trying to sound casual. “Caroline might come to understand the situation better if given more time.”

“That would only postpone the inevitable.” Marion pulled back the tiniest bit, enough to wipe at a tear but not so much that he didn’t still hold her. “My cousin is here only because I am, and I know he has a great deal to do back at Tafford. He means to leave in the morning, and I can’t ask him to wait longer than that.”

“No. I suppose not.”

She took a deep breath and stepped out of his arms. Layton only just kept himself from reaching for her again. If she was really leaving in the morning, if he was never going to see her again . . .

“Marion, I need to thank you.”

She turned to look at him. That made it harder.

He forced himself to continue, however awkwardly. “For all the times you listened when I . . . when I needed someone to talk to.”

Marion touched her hand lightly to his face. Anything else he might have said stuck in his throat. Layton closed his eyes, committing the moment to memory. If his past hadn’t been so riddled with failures, his own conscience so troubled with doubts, he might have been blessed to know the joy of her touch every day for the rest of their lives.

“I only hope you’ve found some degree of peace,” she whispered.

“I’m beginning to,” he whispered back. He was beginning to feel some peace regarding Bridget’s burial and the deception he’d enacted after her death. But he could not be certain he was blameless for her unhappiness. If he’d caused that pain, any part of it, he could never trust himself with Marion’s well-being.

Her fingers left his face. He nearly reached for her, nearly pulled her back and asked her to stay a moment longer. When he heard her steps move away from him and out the door, he wished he had.

But until he knew he hadn’t failed Bridget, knew he wouldn’t destroy Marion the same way, he couldn’t stop her. He couldn’t confess that he loved her more than he’d loved anyone before.

Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of fear, it was time he started praying again.

Marion had never felt less like going to church. Perhaps if the kind and loving Mr. Martin from back home were offering the sermon rather than the sharp-tongued Mr. Throckmorten, with his constant condemnation of his congregation and dire warnings of the hopeless state of the majority of their souls, she might be more enthusiastic. Although, if she were being entirely honest, Mr. Throckmorten had very little to do with her reluctance.

She was leaving Nottinghamshire immediately after services, leaving Farland Meadows and Caroline and Layton. She had imagined in all her naiveté that during her sojourn as Caroline’s governess she would make a difference and Caroline would blossom into a happy, contented young girl. She had hoped to see Layton shed some of the burdens he unnecessarily carried. Even if he never came to love her the way she’d hoped, she wanted him to find peace again.

None of that had happened. The last time she’d seen Caroline, the girl had struck her. Marion understood the outburst for what it was: fear and vulnerability and disappointment. The poor child felt abandoned. Again. And Layton? He’d said the afternoon before that he was beginning to find some measure of peace in his life, and yet he’d looked so troubled. In her distress, he had held her and offered the comfort she’d needed. In that moment, she’d felt home again for the first time since her father and brother had died. He had eased her burdens, but she was helpless to lift the weight off his heart. After she left, would he return to his isolation and unhappiness? Would he ever truly find the peace he needed? How she ached to stay there, to simply be near him.

She walked up the narrow path to the church with Roderick and Adèle and Cousin Miles, trying to feel some joy in the crisp, clear winter morning. Only halfway to the church doors, something collided with her legs. Cousin Miles barely managed to keep her upright. Marion twisted to see what had nearly knocked her down.

Caroline, face buried in Marion’s skirts, stood with her arms wrapped around Marion’s legs. “I’m sorry, Mary! I’m sorry!” her muffled cries repeated.

Marion managed to detach her enough to lower herself to Caroline’s eye level. “Caroline, dearest,” she said gently.

Caroline looked up at her, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I hurt your face,” she wailed. “I’m sorry!”

“My face feels much better now.” Marion stroked the perfect ringlets framing that darling face. Caroline sniffled loudly. “And I think I know why you did it.”

“You do?” Caroline’s voice shook with emotion.

“We are going to miss each other, aren’t we?” Marion asked quietly, forcing a smile to her lips. She would miss them both desperately.

Caroline nodded.

“Perhaps someday you could come visit me at my home,” Marion tentatively suggested. “We could sit under my golden tree.”

“Do you think Papa will let me come?” Caroline asked, her tears slowing a little.

“I don’t know,” Marion answered honestly. “I hope so.”

Caroline nodded and took a shaking breath.

“And I promise to write to you.”

“I don’t know how to read.”

“Your new governess will teach you,” Marion said.

Another nod, but Caroline’s chin had begun quivering again.

“We should keep moving, Cousin Marion.”

Marion looked up to see something of a crowd waiting just behind them on the narrow path. Lady Lampton stood at the very front.

Marion rose to her feet. “Your grandmother is waiting for you, Caroline. You’d best go with her.”

“I want to sit with you.” Caroline took a fistful of Marion’s skirts.

“You need to sit with your family, dear.”

“Yes, come, Caroline.” Lady Lampton held her hand out to Caroline.

“No, Grammy.” Caroline pouted. “I want to sit with Mary.”

“Lady Marion will be sitting with her cousin,” Lady Lampton explained. “And you will be sitting with your family in our pew.”

“I want to sit with Mary.” The pout grew mutinous.

“Caroline,” Marion gently reprimanded. To have her time as a governess end with this display was almost as depressing as actually leaving. Perhaps she hadn’t achieved anything at all.

“I want to sit with you,” Caroline demanded, stomping her foot.

What had come over the girl lately? Marion looked across at Lady Lampton, unsure what to do. A scene in the church courtyard was unthinkable.

“Caroline, please, dear,” Marion implored.

“I . . . want . . . to . . . !”

“Caroline,” Lady Lampton loudly whispered.

“I—” But Caroline began to sob, her words inaudible.

Marion and Lady Lampton watched each other in mutual confusion. The rest of the Lampton Park party watched the scene, equally baffled. Just when Marion didn’t think the situation could grow any worse, Mr. Throckmorten descended upon them with his usual look of disapproval and superiority.

“Is there a problem?” He eyed the assembly, lips pursing as his look fell upon Caroline.

“No, there is not,” Marion insisted.

He looked down at Caroline with much the same expression one might reserve for the mangled remains of a spider recently introduced to the heel of a boot. How could any man of the church look on a child that way?

“I suppose there is little to be done with a child destined to be a heathen.”

Marion’s jaw tensed, even as her hand tightened around Caroline’s.

“Her father is so far fallen from what is good and right that he’s not darkened this door in years. One can’t expect the offspring of a hopeless sinner to be anything but that herself.”

“How dare you,” Marion ground out, heat creeping up her neck. “You should care for your congregants, not condemn them.”

The vicar spoke across her words, not hearing them in the least. “If you cannot bring this child in to some semblance of good behavior, I suggest you remove her at once.” He watched Marion with utter distaste. “Such an ill-behaved display is hardly welcome, Miss Wood.”

“She is
Lady
Marion Linwood,
Mr.
Throckmorten,” came a familiar voice that stopped every noise and every conversation in an instant. “It was my understanding that all people are welcome in a place of worship, even a ‘hopeless sinner.’”

“Bravo,” Marion heard Cousin Miles say under his breath.

But Marion was too busy staring to do much more than register it as a passing remark. Layton, pristinely turned out, stood beside Caroline. He looked decidedly uncomfortable but with a determined lift to his chin.

“Come, Caroline.” Layton held his hand out to his daughter. “It doesn’t do to keep the Almighty waiting.”

Caroline’s surprise gave way to a tremulous smile as she laid her tiny hand in his. “Will you sit by me, Papa?” she asked with obvious uncertainty.

“If you will share your prayer book with me,” Layton replied with an equally uneasy smile. “And nudge me if I forget something.”

Caroline nodded mutely.

“Perhaps if you had stepped inside a chapel even once in the past five years or more, you would not require the guidance of a child,” Mr. Throckmorten answered at his most top-lofty. He was enough to turn even the most devoted of believers into cynics. Marion herself had heard him humiliate members of the parish each Sunday for weeks. Those who toed his chosen line escaped the most scathing denunciations, but the rest were treated with such contempt that it often left worshipers in tears. It was little wonder Layton had stayed away so long. If he had lived in Mr. Martin’s parish during the past five years, the outcome might have been quite different.

“I seem to recall,” Mr. Harold Jonquil said—Holy Harry, as the brothers had dubbed him—watching Mr. Throckmorten with something like pity on his face, “reading somewhere . . .” His face turned in a look of mock confusion that brought the earl immediately to mind. “What was that phrase?”

Layton watched Harry, a smile nearly emerging. The earl grinned full out.

“Ah, yes. ‘And a little child shall lead them.’ And I do believe this was a pleasing turn of events.” The usually even-tempered future cleric skewered his would-be contemporary with a look of fierce accusation. “I wonder, sir, if you have ever read the book in which that particular passage is found. If you have, I doubt you have understood a word it contains.”

“Bravo,” came the same whispered observation from Cousin Miles.

Mr. Throckmorten sputtered and turned several shades of purple.

Layton had apparently had enough. Holding Caroline’s hand, he stepped around the gathered assembly and walked toward the church doors. He kept his eyes firmly fixed ahead, his hand clasping Caroline’s as if his survival depended on it. Behind him, the assembled churchgoers were entirely silent.

“Please continue inside,” Lord Lampton instructed the crowd in a voice that brooked no argument. They obliged, looks of smug satisfaction on each and every face. Mr. Throckmorten obviously hadn’t won many allies. Only the Jonquil family, the Kendrick sisters, Marion, Cousin Miles, and the Duke and Duchess of Hartley remained.

“I say, Throckmorten,” the earl said, swinging his quizzing glass, “you do not look at all well. Perhaps you should have a lie down.”

“
I
am to deliver a sermon this morning,” Mr. Throckmorten said, very much on his dignity.

“Oh, I believe your message has been most effectively delivered and far too many times at that. More than ought to have been allowed, in fact.” Lord Lampton drawled the observation, but his eyes were chilling. “And I have a message of my own I would like to relay to you.” He studied his fingernails with a casual air that didn’t fool a soul, Marion would wager. “But I suggest you not risk receiving it if your health is at all fragile.”

Miss Sorrel Kendrick seemed to barely hold back a spurt of laughter.

“A message, my lord?” Mr. Throckmorten looked at him warily.

“Perhaps it would do to remind you, Throckmorten,” Captain Stanley Jonquil jumped into the fray, “that Lord Lampton has the giving, and
taking
, of this living.”

The purple hue of Mr. Throckmorten’s face almost immediately turned ashen. “What about my sermon?”

“Did you mean to wax long and eloquent on the shortcomings of your parishioners or read your usual list of local sinners?”

Though Mr. Throckmorten didn’t reply aloud, his face gave his answer.

Lord Lampton raised an eyebrow to his brother Harold and received an almost pontifical inclination of the head in return. “I do not believe your words will be necessary,” he told Mr. Throckmorten. With a rather condescending look of concern, he added, “Go have that lie down. You’ll need it.”

The earl bowed so slightly that it was more of an insult than an acknowledgment
.
Mr. Throckmorten took himself off, looking more than a little flabbergasted. Miss Kendrick offered her betrothed a round of silent applause.

“I haven’t taken Orders yet, Philip,” Holy Harry reminded his brother.

“I sat through a long, tedious ordination not a year ago.” Lord Lampton smoothed the front of his unusually somber waistcoat.

“A deacon cannot—”