Drops of Gold (9 page)

“We have it, Caroline!” Marion called out, dancing around with the cake plate, hoping she wasn’t making too much of a spectacle of herself.

“Huzzah!” Caroline shouted then turned back to her father and said with a great deal of pride, “Stanby taught me that word.”

Mr. Jonquil’s smile widened. Marion froze on the spot. His smile was magical, transforming his face, his entire countenance. She’d always thought her employer handsome, but when he smiled like that, the man was devastating.

Marion felt Caroline tug on her skirts and forced herself back into their little game. She dropped the plate onto the table and knelt in front of it. She and Caroline tore into the slice of cake with all the dignity of a pair of London street sweeps. Crumbs of cake flew in all directions. Caroline laughed so hard she could hardly catch her breath. Marion couldn’t help laughing herself. Somewhere beyond the veil of flying cake, she thought she heard deep-voiced laughter joining in.

“I found it!” Caroline giggled, holding a chocolate-smeared gold coin high above her head.

Mr. Jonquil laughed and swung Caroline into the air. Marion grinned. That was how a father and daughter ought to look, ought to behave. She thought of her own father swinging her through the air when she was a mere wisp of a thing like Caroline.

Considering Caroline’s initial reticence when Marion had arrived and the complete lack of playfulness on Mr. Jonquil’s part, Marion felt she had witnessed the start of a miracle. For a split second, she pictured herself posing for a painting, hands clasped reverently, eyes cast heavenward, perhaps a halo glowing behind her head. The thought made her laugh even harder.

“That coin is mine, you little absconder,” Mr. Jonquil said as he kissed Caroline loudly on the cheek.

“Upsmonder?” Caroline asked. “Is that like a
deuced bother
?”

Marion sputtered. Where in heaven’s name had Caroline heard that? That phrase was not one uttered by gently bred young ladies, most especially in the company of others. “I did
not
teach her that!” She held her hands out in a show of innocence, praying Mr. Jonquil would believe her. She said
furuncle
and
double dungers
on occasion but nothing stronger.

“Where did you hear that, Caroline?” Mr. Jonquil asked.

Marion winced at his tone. It wasn’t particularly harsh but was still such a stark contrast to the playful, loving tone he’d employed only moments before. Caroline, at times, had an overabundance of sensibility. The change would upset her.

Caroline’s lip began to quiver then jutted out.
Furuncle
! She was going to cry. So much progress only to end like this.

“That’s what Flip said!” Caroline wailed then buried her face in Mr. Jonquil’s neckcloth.

“Your Uncle Flip sometimes says things he shouldn’t,” Mr. Jonquil said after smothering a quick grin. Marion had a feeling Mr. Jonquil was fighting the urge to laugh, and suddenly Marion wanted to meet Flip. Anyone who could make this usually long-faced man laugh spontaneously would be a good ally in her ongoing efforts to bring joy to Farland Meadows.

“Are you angry, Papa?” Caroline’s muffled voice quivered.

“Of course not, poppet,” Mr. Jonquil said gently. While Mr. Jonquil was not playful, he was always tender toward his daughter. “You certainly didn’t know it wasn’t something a young lady should say.”

Marion moved closer, laying her hand on Caroline’s back just above Mr. Jonquil’s hand. Caroline needed to come out of this unscathed. “And perhaps you could tell your Uncle Flip to watch his language,” she said.

“That is a conversation I would enjoy overhearing,” Mr. Jonquil said under his breath to Marion.

For the first time in the short two weeks she’d been at Farland Meadows, Marion saw a side of Mr. Jonquil she’d never imagined. His eyes sparkled with mischief, like a joke was lurking in the background, a joke he was sharing with her. Marion felt her heart skip a beat but told herself the reaction stemmed only from her relief at seeing that Mr. Jonquil was happier, and therefore Caroline would be happier, and thus her job would be that much easier. She almost believed her reasoning.

“Now, dearest.” Marion pulled her eyes from Mr. Jonquil and addressed Caroline. “You are our queen for the night. We await your command.”

“I have been dethroned,” Mr. Jonquil said with a sigh. “This must be how Charles I felt.” A smile tugged at his lips.

“Except Charles was beheaded,” Marion pointed out. “We only stole your cake.”

“I want to hear about the pepper,” Caroline said, still leaning against her father and sniffling.

“The pepper?” Mr. Jonquil asked.

“Funny pepper.” Caroline wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Mary’s story.”

How she adored the child! Candid moments like this one, when Caroline acted like a four-year-old instead of a tiny, reticent adult, tugged at Marion’s heart. She wished Caroline to always be so unaffected.

“Sit with your papa,” Marion said, reaching out to wipe a tear from Caroline’s face. “Let him clean you up a bit, and I will tell you the story.”

Mr. Jonquil hesitated for only a fraction of a moment, his eyes focused on Marion’s face. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, offended him somehow. But then he sat, holding Caroline on his lap in a chair near the fireplace. He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at Caroline’s eyes.

Marion watched the girl’s transformation. Caroline’s smile slowly, tentatively returned.

“Blow your nose, dear,” Mr. Jonquil instructed, handing her the linen.

She did and made to give it back, like a miniature version of a gentleman giving his square of linen to a dewy-eyed debutante.

“No, dearest.” Marion stopped her, unable to squelch the thought of the girl trying to give back an unlaundered handkerchief to some well-meaning gentleman in fourteen years or so. “You keep the linen but tell him you will have it laundered and will return it to him.”

Caroline giggled. “Is that what very grown-up girls do?” she asked her papa.

“Oh, yes. And sometimes, if a gentleman is particularly enamored of a very grown-up girl to whom he has lent his handkerchief, he will wish her to keep it.”

“Will some gentleman give me his handkerchief when I am grown-up?” Caroline looked intently into Mr. Jonquil’s eyes.

“Probably, and then I will call him out.”

Marion felt her breath catch in her throat. Her own father had said that so many times, threatening with a chuckle to call out any young man who showed any preference for his “darling girl.”

Caroline grinned and threw her arms around Mr. Jonquil’s neck. “Oh, Papa! You are
funny
tonight.”

“Funny? I am perfectly serious. The only gentleman’s handkerchiefs you will be permitted to accept will be mine.”

Oh heavens, how Marion missed her father right then. She could vividly recall sitting on his lap as a child and laughing at his antics and telling him how very silly he was. Those were among her most cherished memories.

Mr. Jonquil looked up at her in that moment, and Marion grew flustered. She blinked a few times, hoping to disguise the fact that tears sat unshed on her lashes. She felt her lips tremble as she attempted to force them into a smile she felt certain looked more like a grimace. Not knowing what else to do, Marion turned slightly away, forcing herself to breathe deeply and rid her mind of these sudden blue-devils.

“Tell me the story, Mary,” she heard Caroline say.

One more deep breath, and Marion turned back toward Caroline, who was snuggled against her father. “Once upon a time—” Her voice shook only once. Caroline did not seem to notice, but Mr. Jonquil was watching her with more interest than her story warranted.

“—a handsome young man fell in love with a kindhearted young lady,” Caroline finished for her.

Marion smiled. All her stories
did
begin the same way. “They were married and were soon blessed with a—”

“—strapping son and a loving daughter,” Mr. Jonquil filled in, his smile full of uncharacteristic mischief, which somehow fit him far more than his usual look of disconnection.

Marion’s heart warmed. He might not have been a knight on a white charger, but he’d come to her rescue just the same, helping dispel her sudden sadness. He held his daughter so protectively, so lovingly, that Caroline had survived a scolding without retreating into herself once more.

Marion’s smile remained as she continued her story. “While their children were always quite impressively well behaved at the table, one evening meal did not turn out to be a crowning example of their manners.” She sat in the chair directly across from the one Mr. Jonquil shared with Caroline, who appeared to be leaning more heavily against him as she listened. “The daughter was still quite young. And the son, you see, found everything about that meal remarkably funny. He laughed and laughed, almost unable to take a breath. Soon the daughter was pealing with laughter as well but only because her brother was in such an unmerciful state of amusement. Their mother began to laugh next. Soon their father’s chuckles erupted into full-bellied laughter.

“‘I would like to know why I am laughing so uproariously,’ the father informed his family between chortles.

“‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ their mother admitted.

“The daughter couldn’t stop laughing long enough to admit her own ignorance. The family turned to the son, who had started the entire difficulty. He only shrugged and continued to laugh as tears ran down his cheeks.

“‘I suppose there must be funny pepper in our meal tonight,’ the mother said.

“From that evening on, whenever the family found themselves lost in a hopeless case of giggles and guffaws, they were quick to declare that someone had slipped funny pepper into their food.”

“But why were they laughing?” Caroline asked without lifting her head from her father’s chest. “What was funny?”

“I think, dearest, they were happy,” Marion said. “Sometimes people laugh simply because they are so happy.”

“Is that true, Papa?” Caroline pulled herself into an even smaller ball.

“It certainly is.” Mr. Jonquil’s arms wrapped around her, nearly hiding her from view. “My papa always said it was tickle bugs, that they would crawl all over one’s skin and make one laugh from all of the tickling. In truth, the laughter came simply because one was happy.”

“Did your papa laugh because he was happy?” Caroline’s voice grew quieter.

“All the time, poppet.”

“Why don’t you, Papa?”

A look of discomfort crossed Mr. Jonquil’s face at her question. Marion watched him and thought back on the many times that evening that he had laughed, and she wondered as well. Why didn’t he ever laugh spontaneously, simply from joy in life? He was haunted, dragged down by something.

“I . . . er . . .” Mr. Jonquil couldn’t seem to answer Caroline’s innocent question.

“What are we to do next, my queen?” Marion jumped in, the raw pain she saw in Mr. Jonquil’s eyes too much for her. “You get to choose, Caroline.”

She didn’t look up or uncurl herself but remained snuggled up to her father. “Can I go to bed, Papa?” Caroline spoke so quietly Marion could hardly hear her.

“Bed, Caroline?”

Marion felt as surprised as Mr. Jonquil sounded. Caroline had spoken of nothing but the Twelfth Night festivities for a week or more.

“But it is Twelfth Night, dearest,” Mr. Jonquil said. “You are queen. You can instruct us to play snap-dragon or ninepins or jackstraws.”

“But I am tired, Papa!”

It was a wail if Marion had ever heard one.

Mr. Jonquil looked up, obviously confused.

“No doubt she slept fitfully from anticipation,” Marion guessed. “Perhaps we could allow her to be queen on a night when she is more rested.”

Mr. Jonquil nodded. “Come on, dear.” He stood with Caroline in his arms. “Off to bed.”

Layton had fought sleep as long as he possibly could, but there he was again, standing beside a bed with light blue curtains pulled closed all around. He reached out even though he didn’t want to and felt the familiar dread building.

A loud rat-tat woke him with a start. Layton sat straight up in his bed, still in his shirt and pantaloons. The rat-tat repeated, and somewhere in the back of Layton’s mind, he realized someone was knocking on the door of his bedchamber. He dropped his bare feet onto the chilly floor and examined himself momentarily in the looking glass above his shaving stand as he passed.

Layton shrugged at his missing cravat and coat, not to mention his lack of footwear. Anyone seeking his company in the middle of the night couldn’t possibly expect him to be presentable.

He opened the door then froze from shock. Miss Wood stood in the doorway, a single candle in her hand, a thick blue dressing grown open over a serviceable white night rail, brilliant red hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Miss Wood,” he managed to say.

“I am so sorry to wake you, sir.” She looked and sounded distressed.

“What is it?” He felt a touch alarmed.

“Caroline.” That one word made his heart drop into his stomach. “She’s ill. Feverish and . . . she’s asking for you.”

They took the stairs two at a time. Not until later did Layton stop to wonder how she, being shorter than himself, had managed to keep up with him. Candles burned in Caroline’s room, illuminating her flushed face, pale beneath the spots of color on her overheated cheeks. The moment they reached the bedside, Miss Wood began dabbing at Caroline’s forehead, face, and neck with a damp cloth.

Layton took Caroline’s hand. Even it felt warm. “Darling?” He brushed a damp curl from her face when Miss Wood stopped dabbing in order to rewet her cloth.

Caroline’s eyes fluttered open. Layton’s heart beat harder. Her eyes were dim from the fever, almost unseeing.

“Papa?” she asked tentatively, her voice gruff and quiet.

“I’m here, dearest.” Layton squeezed her hand.

Caroline’s eyes drifted closed again. Layton looked up at Miss Wood. She watched the tiny child, looking near tears.

“Should I have sent for the doctor, sir?” Miss Wood did not take her eyes off Caroline. “I wasn’t sure.”