Drops of Gold (20 page)

He’d found that companionship again with Marion. It had come so quickly, so effortlessly, that he couldn’t say when the connection had been forged. And as that connection had persisted and grown, he’d come to love her as he’d loved no one else before. He’d found the possibility of happiness . . . and it was pointless. Heaven had arranged that.

He’d failed Bridget so entirely. Despite the idea of her illness being a form of madness, something out of his sphere of understanding, Layton couldn’t entirely shake the thought that somehow he’d been responsible. If only he’d been a better husband, if only he’d loved her more, treated her better, then perhaps she would have recovered or even been well to begin with.

Philip was right. Seeing someone you cared for in pain was an awful experience. First, Bridget struggling with whatever it was that had afflicted her, rebuffing his futile efforts to help her. Then Marion, such soul-wrenching pain in her eyes every time he’d encountered her since his ham-fisted explanation of their situation.

Suppose things had been different, that he’d had enough standing in society to weather the scandal a union between them would create? Suppose she hadn’t been a governess at all? He still wasn’t sure he could have married her. He’d only fail her like he had Bridget. He couldn’t see her go through that.

Yes. Philip was right.
Acute torture.

The wedding guests had been arriving for two days, though nearly a month remained before the ceremony. Marion had overheard Stanley telling a fair-haired beauty, whom she’d come to understand was the younger sister of the bride-to-be, that everyone was so shocked that someone had actually agreed to marry his oldest brother that no one who knew the earl could do anything but engage in a weeks-long celebration.

Thus far Marion had managed to keep to the nursery wing throughout the inundation. She and Caroline were seldom at the Meadows. They would climb into the Farland carriage and make the ten-minute drive to Lampton Park. Layton likely would have forgone the carriage altogether except for Caroline’s obvious enjoyment of it all. She said more than once that she felt very grown-up being driven about.

Marion loved watching Caroline, loved her enthusiasm over such small, simple things. Seeing that excitement never failed to bring a smile to Marion’s face. Often during their carriage rides, she would look to Layton, wondering if he found his daughter’s elation as captivating as she did. Inevitably, their eyes would meet, and Layton would smile at Marion for the briefest of moments before resuming his more somber expression. That fleeting connection between them wrenched her heart anew, and yet, she enjoyed it. She never stepped out of place, always diverted her eyes the very next moment, and didn’t speak. Layton didn’t speak to her either. Caroline obligingly filled in what would have been an awkward silence.

Twice a day they made the journey. Once to the Park. Once back. Layton took Caroline to the drawing room, where she was oohed and ahhed over. Marion took herself to the nursery wing, where she sat alone and waited. She quietly collected Caroline in time for her luncheon then sat again as the girl slept. It was quiet and peaceful and miserable.

But, she told herself, at least she hadn’t seen any of the guests. Until the first morning of new arrivals, Marion hadn’t thought through her particular entanglement. Despite Father’s having been a veritable recluse during the last ten years of his life and the isolated nature of their existence in the years before that, there was a slight possibility someone among the guests would recognize her. That, she knew all too well, could be disastrous.

“Miss Wood.” A male drawl broke Marion from her musings the third morning of what she had come to think of as her exile to the nursery wing of Lampton Park.

“Lord Lampton.” She rose and curtsied.

“May I introduce you to my betrothed, Miss Sorrel Kendrick.”

Marion exchanged curtsies with the dark-haired beauty, noting as she did that Lord Lampton’s future wife significantly favored one leg. She seemed so comfortable with her walking stick that Marion came easily to the conclusion that the condition was not a new one. If Lord Lampton could overlook what most gentlemen would consider an insurmountable flaw in his beloved, why couldn’t his brother have loved
her
? She was a servant, true enough, and red haired and outspoken to boot, but were those such horrific shortcomings?

“I have heard a great deal of praise for you, Miss Wood,” Miss Kendrick said.

Marion flashed a concerned glance at Lord Lampton. How much had he told his betrothed of their last and only conversation?

“But not too much praise, I assure you.” Lord Lampton’s look was one of detached amusement. He was in his disguise again, though why he insisted on affecting a cover, she couldn’t say. “I would hate to have my dear Sorrel bash you over the head with her infamous walking stick in a fit of jealousy.”

Marion saw Miss Kendrick roll her eyes and knew that she was fully aware of her intended’s playacting and that she loved him despite it, or perhaps, to a degree,
because
of it. She felt a pang of jealousy, wishing in that moment that the man she loved could love her despite her situation. Could love her
at all
, she corrected herself.

“The countess has sent me to you to address a domestic matter,” Miss Kendrick continued on. Marion sensed a certain nervousness in her manner. “It seems my training is to begin early.”

Training to be the countess, no doubt. No wonder Miss Kendrick was nervous. Generally speaking, most misses were not raised to be countesses, just as most ladies were not raised to be governesses. Marion understood what it was to feel out of one’s place and learning an entirely new role.

“How may I be of service, Miss Kendrick?” Marion hoped to put the future Countess of Lampton at ease.

“A family—guests—due to arrive soon, will be bringing with them both a governess and a nursemaid,” Miss Kendrick said, obviously thinking through her words as she said them. Marion softened her servant’s demeanor with the slightest empathetic smile. “We thought perhaps you would appreciate the opportunity for some occasional time to yourself. But I had wondered about Miss Caroline. I was told”—she sent an accusatory glance at Lord Lampton—“that Miss Caroline was likely to be easily overwhelmed by groups of people, though I am beginning to think my fiancé’s word is not to be trusted.”

“His assessment is, I assure you, not so much inaccurate as it is out-of-date.” Marion barely kept back a laugh at the teasing tone of Miss Kendrick’s words and the almost theatrical look of wounded innocence Lord Lampton assumed. “Miss Caroline is greatly changed over these past two months.”

“Since your arrival, Miss Wood?” Lord Lampton asked with a lightness that didn’t ring entirely true.

“Those are words waiting to be twisted, Lord Lampton. I think I would do best not to answer.”

“My approach as well, Miss Wood.” Miss Kendrick smiled at her. “Do you believe Miss Caroline will adjust to having her nursery inundated?”

Miss Kendrick was obviously a no-nonsense, straightforward kind of person, rather different from Marion, but Marion felt entirely at ease with her. Under different circumstances, they might very well have been friends.

“I cannot say how Caroline will react,” Marion said, “having never seen her under similar circumstances. I can always take her back to the Meadows should she seem overwrought.”

Miss Kendrick smiled in obvious relief. Yes, they would have been friends, indeed. Miss Kendrick smiled up at Lord Lampton, whose expression matched her own. “It seems your mother gave me an easy task. Or perhaps I am better at countess-ing than I thought.”

“Both, I imagine,” Lord Lampton replied.

“I was also instructed to have a look around while I was up here,” Miss Kendrick said, looking around with a little blush.

“That’s Mater.” Lord Lampton laughed. “She dotes on grandchildren.”

The remark sent a furious red blush across Miss Kendrick’s face, something Marion would have had a hard time imagining had she not seen it. Looking very much like she was escaping, Miss Kendrick limped across the large play room and began peeking into the adjoining rooms.

“Well, Miss Wood,” Lord Lampton said, his voice low, “I think you should know that you have made a liar of me.”

“I . . . what?”

He straightened his bright red waistcoat and continued, as if offhand. “I had to tell my brother a Banbury tale about a nonexistent London acquaintance in order to make use of the information you provided me with.”

“What did you learn?” Marion asked then quickly checked her tone. “If I may be permitted to ask.”

“A great deal, so far.” Lord Lampton’s eyes never left Miss Kendrick as she slowly inspected the nursery wing. “The condition your ‘friend’s’ wife suffered from has a name, it seems, and is recognized by many noted physicians as a form of madness.”

“Madness?” She whispered the word, knowing somehow that the diagnosis was of utmost significance.

“The law doesn’t condemn a person for doing what this individual’s wife apparently did if that person is mad,” Lord Lampton quickly explained as Miss Kendrick slowly made her approach. “I managed to get that information to him in what I hope was an inconspicuous manner.”

“What of the views of the church, Lord Lampton?” Marion pressed. “I think God’s condemnation has weighed on him most.”

“I am still deciphering that question, Miss Wood.”

In the next moment, arm in arm, Lord Lampton and the future Lady Lampton left the nursery wing. Marion allowed a breath of relief. She had helped Layton. It didn’t make him love her. But she’d helped.

* * *

“Hartley!” Philip jovially greeted His Grace with the ease of an old friend, one of the growing list of friends Layton and Philip didn’t have in common.

“Still posturing, are you, Lampton?” The duke slapped Philip firmly on the shoulder. “Thought you’d give that up now that you’re settled.”

“
Nearly
settled,” the Duchess of Hartley corrected her husband with a teasing smile. “If his
dame de l’amour
does not object to his acting like a babbling fool, why should you?”

“That was not terribly helpful to my cause.” Philip raised an eyebrow at Her Grace.

She returned the gesture with a cold, cutting glance down her very fine nose. Philip laughed and raised his arms in surrender.

“She does that well, does she not?” His Grace smiled affectionately at his wife, much as one would expect a very newly married couple to do, though Layton knew they’d wed nearly ten years earlier.

“She is positively terrifying!” Philip even managed a dramatic shudder.

The duchess, however, had already regained her usual gentle expression. She turned her gaze to Layton. “
Monsieur Layton
.”

The proper greetings were exchanged, followed by polite inquiries into the health of each other’s children.

“Already quite happily settled in the nursery,” His Grace said of his own brood.

Layton’s mind almost immediately focused on his own ladies in the nursery. Despite his best efforts, Layton’s affection for Marion remained unchanged. If anything, his feelings had intensified. He looked forward to their twice-daily rides to and from the Park. It was the only time she smiled at him anymore. He found he needed those smiles.

He worried about her. Marion hadn’t regained much of her coloring over the last two weeks. She still looked pale, fragile, hurt. While the idea that Marion might be nursing a broken heart was at least a little gratifying, he hated himself for what he seemed to be putting her through. Surely she understood the impediments, the whys of their necessary separation.

Did she know how much he loved her? Layton wondered. That he depended on her enduring cheerfulness? Admired her honesty? Adored her dedication to Caroline?

A rap on the door snapped Layton back to the present. Philip and the duke and duchess had crossed to a far window at some point while Layton had been woolgathering. Only he watched the door as it opened.

Marion! Almost as if he’d conjured her up just by thinking about her.

“Hello,” he quietly greeted, knowing he smiled too largely for propriety.

Her entire face lightened for a moment, an answering smile on her lips. “Might I speak with you about the nursery, sir?”

That “sir” broke his heart, even as he memorized every nuance of her smiling face.

“Of course.” He heard the sounds of Philip and the Hartleys moving toward them.

Marion opened her mouth to tell him something, but the duke’s voice broke in. “Marion!”

Her head snapped up instinctively. Layton watched her, glanced at the duke, then looked back at Marion again. She smiled broadly, and tears gathered in her eyes.

“Roderick!” she exclaimed and positively ran past Layton to the duke’s outstretched arms.

She hugged him enthusiastically then did precisely the same thing to the duchess, who held her far too tightly and far too long to be anything but a dear friend.

Had Marion just called the Duke of Hartley by his Christian name?

“What are you doing here?” His Grace asked, sounding genuinely confused. “We were planning to stop by Tafford after Lampton’s wedding.”

Then Marion unaccountably began to sob. Layton began crossing to her but checked himself.

“
Ma pauvre amie
.” Her Grace stroked Marion’s hair, an arm reassuringly draped around her shoulders, precisely what Layton would have liked to do. “Come now. We will find you a cup of tea and wash your face. You will feel much better, you shall see.” She looked up at Philip. “Where is Lady Marion’s bedchamber?”

Lady
Marion! The look of shock on Philip’s face must have mirrored Layton’s own.

“Never mind.” The duchess waved off the answer she had been awaiting. “She can come to mine.”

Without a single word of explanation or even a fleeting look at Layton, Marion left, crying into the lacy handkerchief the duchess lent her. If she hadn’t returned the one Layton had asked her to keep, she could have used
his
!