Drops of Gold Read online

  Layton made his way to the front staircase and up to his bedchamber. Jones, his valet, would be celebrating Christmas below stairs with the rest of the servants. Layton draped his coat over the back of a chair then sat on the edge of his bed.

  Spending time with his family wore on him. Spending time with anyone had worn on him the past few years. Layton untied his cravat and unwound it, letting his breath slowly escape. The square of linen dropped into a crumpled heap on the bed beside him. He closed his eyes and deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat.

  “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentleman” echoed in his heavy mind, the feelings of loss and emptiness it inspired clinging to him like a wet shirt. Layton shook his head in an attempt to clear it. When had Christmas become such an unpleasant affair?

  He dropped onto the bed, staring up at the heavy canopy. Why had he agreed to come to Suffolk? Surely Mater would have understood if he’d declined, if he’d insisted on staying with Caroline. Yes, she would have understood, but she would have been disappointed.

  Layton closed his eyes and draped his arm across his forehead. Disappointed. Was there a person in all of England he hadn’t disappointed? If Mater wasn’t already on that list, he certainly didn’t want to see her added to it.

  He would leave in the morning. In mere days, he’d be back home.

  His breathing grew more even, his arm resting more heavily on his head. Sleep approached, and Layton dreaded it. He could postpone the inevitable if he rose, paced his bedchamber. Perhaps he could throw open the window and allow the cold winter air to awaken his dulling senses. In the end, it would do no good. Sleep would come eventually, whether he wished it to or not.

  The uncomfortable sensation of sleep slid slowly over him. For a moment, nothing. Then came darkness and the fuzzy images of dreams.

  He was frantically flying down the corridors of the house he’d lived in for six years. He was lost. Lost within the walls of his own home.

  Layton threw open the first door he reached: an empty bedchamber with pale-blue bed curtains, plush cream carpeting, and sunlight filtering through thin draperies. His heart began to race. He ran on, jerking open the next door only to find the same empty bedchamber.

  On and on he ran. Every door opened to a duplicate scene, but every door was wrong. Layton ran harder, his breath coming in gasps. Somewhere in the distance a sob pierced the air.

  Layton tried unsuccessfully to push his legs faster. Each door led to the same serene scene as if mocking the desperation of his search. The echoing sobs grew more harrowing as fog drifted into the unending corridor. Layton opened countless doors, no longer stopping to look over the repeated scene.

  The crying grew louder.

  He was close. So close. If only he could find the right door.

  The fog became suddenly thick, the air bitterly cold. Layton stood frozen before a doorway. The sobbing had stopped. Only the sound of his uneasy breathing rent the silence.

  The door he faced opened on its own. It led to the same bedchamber, but this one was dim and cold. Layton closed his eyes as he stepped inside.

  “No,” he whispered, shaking his head.

  Not a sound penetrated the darkness. He opened his eyes to study the eerie scene. Heavy drapes covered the windows, not a ray of light breaking through them. Four walls of pale-blue curtains enclosed the bed.

  Layton inched closer, his heart never slowing.

  “No,” he whispered again, stinging pain grasping his throat as he fought back the urge to fill the room with his own sobs. “Too late. Too late.”

  A single candle burned low on a small table at the head of the heavily curtained bed, casting a shivering glow. Layton stood frozen beside it, not wanting to pull the curtains back but knowing he must.

  His fingers grasped the front curtain—it crumpled soundlessly—then clenched it in a desperate fist. Still he stood, unable to move, unable to pull it back. He’d come so far. Yet there he was, one movement from retribution.

  He took two slow, deep breaths. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing now, as if the very life had been sucked from the room.

  Layton clenched the heavy fabric tighter. In one swift motion, he flung the curtain back.

  “No!”

  Layton sat upright in his bed, sweat dripping from his forehead like rain. His pulse raced. His lungs struggled to gasp for air. His eyes fought to adjust to the darkness of the room.

  That dream.

  He mopped his face with the bedsheet as drops of sweat stung his eyes. How many years had he been haunted by the same dream? He could not recall the last time he’d slept an entire night without it.

  Layton dropped his head into his hands and tried to force the lingering images from his mind. He felt closer to seventy-seven than twenty-seven, and yet, a lifetime stretched out in front of him, decades of dreams he couldn’t escape, living with heavy regrets and guilt he had no right to wish himself free of.

  Chapter Three

  She’d received an odd welcome, to say the least. After the young maid, whose name she’d discovered was Maggie, fled the doorway, Mrs. Sanders, the housekeeper, showed Marion inside, muttering all the while about servants putting on airs. Every member of the small staff watched her with more than a hint of wariness. Several of the faces she’d briefly encountered regarded her in much the same way one would a cut of fish that had turned.

  Curious, to be sure.

  Not a single smile could be seen on any of their faces. The entire house felt somber. Marion half expected to find the windows and doors draped in black. Mrs. Sanders spoke little beyond a few grumbled words indicating the room that was to be Marion’s.

  Mrs. Sanders turned at the door and looked Marion over. She squinted through her assessment, something Marion would not have guessed she’d been physically capable of doing, considering she wore her silver hair in a bun so tight the corners of her eyes pulled from the strain.

  “The last one left in something of a hurry,” Mrs. Sanders said. The last governess, Marion guessed. “You’ll have time in the morning to straighten. Duties will be cut back in honor of the holiday.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sanders.”

  The house was indeed silent as Marion plaited her overly red hair and twisted it into a bun at the nape of her neck. Papa’s pocket watch read five thirty. The household staff, she had been told, broke their fasts between half past five and six o’clock every morning.

  “Five thirty,” she had repeated upon being told of the ridiculously early breakfast hour.

  Looking back, Marion smiled at her perfectly subservient tone. She’d practiced, after all. Keeping the enthusiasm and cheerfulness from her voice was difficult but not entirely impossible. Perhaps she would make a decent governess.

  But then, she had yet to try her hand at teaching children. Suppose she discovered herself completely inept. Marion smiled, imagining herself tied to a tree somewhere on the grounds while a bevy of wild-eyed children wreaked havoc on the peaceful Farland Meadows. What a mess that would be!

  Marion choked down a laugh as a knock echoed from the door of her room.

  “Come in,” she called out, a hint of amusement still obvious in her tone.

  Maggie stepped inside, a tray in one hand, a candle in the other. “Yer breakfast, Mary.” She brought the tray to the table where Marion sat.

  “My breakfast? But why—”

  “Mrs. Sanders says how yeh’re to take yer meals here.” Maggie set the tray down. She kept her eyes diverted. “An’ how I’m supposed to leave the tray by the servants’ door in the schoolroom. But this bein’ Christmas Day, I thought yeh’d like it brought to yeh.”

  “I would much prefer to eat below stairs.” With people.

  Maggie looked a little uncomfortable, still unable, or unwilling, to meet Marion’s eyes. “But ’tis a real treat up here. Havin’ it brought to yeh an’ all.”

  “Oh, I know,” Marion quickly reassured the young maid. “It just seems an awful lot of extra work. And for a governess, of all things.
It—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders says it’s best that way.” Maggie spoke as though the couple claimed a level of authority equal to the prime minister’s himself rather than the butler and housekeeper they were.

  “It seems like a great deal of trouble,” Marion pressed.

  Maggie didn’t relent. “Jus’ the way things are.”

  Marion twisted her mouth and pondered the declaration. The way things are. Well, things could always change. She fought down a satisfied smile. She’d never failed to make the best of a situation.

  “When does Miss Caroline awaken?” Marion asked, changing the topic to the child she’d been hired to look after.

  “Not for another hour, a’ least.” Maggie walked to the door.

  “Happy Christmas,” Marion called after her with a bright smile. Farland Meadows could use a touch of joy.

  Maggie’s countenance didn’t lighten at all. In fact, the girl seemed distressed. “’Taint much happy ’bout today, holiday or no. ’Taint much happy here ’t’all,” Maggie said. “Master’s rather somber, he is.” She disappeared into the darkened schoolroom.

  Marion let out a long, deep breath. The housekeeper and butler had banished her to the nursery wing. Her employer, apparently, was ill humored, and the entire house shared in that defect. The happy, cheerful house she’d expected felt suddenly cold.

  “Only because there’s no fireplace,” Marion told herself. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of its empty state. She smiled, amused at her own body’s antics. “And because I’m hungry.”

  The biscuit and preposterously weak tea she’d had in Newark the previous afternoon had long since proven insufficient nourishment. She eyed the toast and porridge Maggie had brought her. She hadn’t eaten porridge since her childhood. Appropriate, she thought. If she must be relegated to the nursery wing, being fed on child’s fare was exceptionally fitting.

  After two bites, Marion decided she much preferred the watery tea. Perhaps Cook had been given the day off. She forced down the remainder and carried her empty bowl and crumb-strewn tray out of her room and across the dim schoolroom to the servants’ door, setting it on a nearby table. She hummed a Christmas carol from her childhood, the tune doing wonders for her outlook.

  Using the candle from her room, Marion walked the perimeter of the schoolroom and opened the many curtains. The earliest hints of sunrise penetrated the cloudy sky as a light dusting of snow settled on the ground below. How she loved freshly fallen snow! She watched for a moment as flakes drifted aimlessly about, a quiet peacefulness enveloping the landscape.

  “Quit dawdling,” Marion told herself after one last lingering look outside. She had work to do.

  She spun around to survey her surroundings, and her jaw dropped. Toys and crumpled papers lay scattered in chaotic piles. Books were strewn about unnoticed and unheeded. Had no one bothered cleaning? Certainly the last governess hadn’t left such a deplorable mess, hasty departure or not.

  Her own room required very little attention, so Marion relegated it to another time. ’Twas always best to tackle the difficult things first. She set herself to cleaning, humming as she did. Child-sized fingerprints smudged the pages of the scattered books. Miss Caroline, it seemed, had at least looked at her books before discarding them. Nearly every wadded piece of parchment had been scribbled on, the lines thick and almost dashed as if she’d used a charcoal pencil in dire need of sharpening. The toys sat haphazardly about the room, but not a single one was broken. The child did not seem naturally destructive but simply insufficiently looked after.

  “Your hair is pretty.” The voice was no larger than a drop of rain and clearly belonged to a child still half asleep.

  Marion turned toward the sound, uncertain of what she would find. The child who stood before her could well have been an angel. Her ruffled white nightdress nearly glowed in the morning sun spilling in through the windows. A mess of blonde curls framed her face in something of a halo, her enormous blue eyes wide in innocent anticipation. The girl couldn’t possibly have been more than four or five years old. Too young for a governess. Marion pushed the thought from her head. This was, undoubtedly, Miss Caroline’s younger sister.

  “Hello,” Marion greeted the child, her smile emerging naturally. She dropped carefully to her knees, pulling her dress free at the last moment. She could scarce afford to replace her gowns should she manage to wear knee holes in them. “What is your name?”

  “Caroline.” She scrunched her eyes in the bright sunlight.

  Miss Caroline! Her charge was a tiny child, the appropriate age for a nurse, not a governess. There must be a mistake!

  “Are you my new nurse?” Miss Caroline did not look entirely sure of the arrangement.

  “No,” Marion answered carefully. “I am . . .” Well? What am I? “I am to be your governess.”

  “What’s a gubness?”

  Don’t ask me. But Marion smiled. “A governess teaches and tends to children.”

  “Sounds like a nurse.”

  “Except I will teach you to be grown-up.”

  The girl stood frozen, obviously scrutinizing this newest arrival into her small world.

  “Do you know how to curtsy, Miss Caroline?” She kept a cheerful tone in her voice lest the child think she was scolding.

  Miss Caroline offered an awkward dip then watched Marion uncertainly for her evaluation.

  Marion smiled more broadly, something she didn’t think she could have prevented herself from doing. “Very well done. You are quite a young lady, I see.”

  A smile tugged at the girl’s mouth. That was the right approach, then. Most little girls wished to be thought of as grown-up.

  “How old are you?” Marion sat back on her feet, trying to seem unconcerned.

  She held up four dimpled fingers. Four! Furuncle. Four was definitely too young for a governess. What was going on?

  “Oh my!” Marion allowed her eyes to widen. This mess wasn’t the child’s fault. “How old do you think I am?”

  Miss Caroline studied her for the better part of a minute, her eyes alternately narrowing and widening, her mouth pursing and twisting as she pondered the puzzle. Adorable!

  “Ten?” Miss Caroline guessed.

  “That is very nearly correct,” Marion replied. “I will be twenty years old in only a few weeks.”

  The girl’s mouth formed a perfect O as her eyes grew wide once again. Marion nodded her agreement. Twenty must seem positively antiquated to a child of four.

  “Are you leaving too?” Obvious uncertainty colored Miss Caroline’s tone.

  “Leaving?”

  “Everyone leaves,” Miss Caroline said quite matter-of-factly.

  Not I! For one thing, Marion had nowhere to go. For another, she had already begun to adore the fair-haired angel standing before her.

  Marion used her best pondering face, going so far as to tap her lip with her finger. “I had planned to stay here for some time. Would that be acceptable, do you think? Or would it be better for me to leave?”

  Miss Caroline shook her head so vehemently her curls bounced about.

  “Then I should stay?”

  “Forever and ever!” Miss Caroline declared before running across the room and throwing her arms around Marion’s neck.

  Pulling the girl onto her lap, Marion held the angelic child in her arms. It probably was not very governessy, but it felt right. How terribly lonely the girl must be to take to a stranger so quickly, so desperately.

  “Did you know today is Christmas Day?” Marion asked her armful. The girl nodded. “What shall you do with your family today?”

  “Oh, they are all gone.”

  Again, the unemotional explanation of an unusual situation. Perhaps Miss Caroline did not even realize that a household where “everyone leaves,” as well as having her family gone on Christmas Day, was an unexpected situation.

  “Where have they gone?” Marion wanted more information about this unusual household. If she knew more, sh
e might discover the reason she’d been hired as governess to a child far too young for the schoolroom.

  “Papa is in Stuckfolk,” Miss Caroline said.

  Fighting down a laugh, Marion corrected, “Suffolk.”

  “Mm-hmm. With Grammy and all the boys.”

  “Boys?” Mrs. Sanders hadn’t mentioned any boys in the household. Perhaps she was to teach them. They ought to have tutors though. No. Mrs. Sanders’s letter specifically said she was to be governess to Miss Caroline.

  “Papa has lots of big boys,” Miss Caroline said.

  “Do they live here?” Perhaps she’d been hired under false pretenses.

  “No-o-o.” Miss Caroline pulled back enough to look Marion in the face. “They live lots of places.” She began counting off on her dimpled fingers. “With the horses.” A groom? “With the books.” Hmm. “With all the blue.” What does that mean? “At Painage and Beatin’. And Flip lives all over.”

  “Ah.” Marion nodded her head as if the explanation was perfectly clear. “That sounds . . . exciting.”

  Miss Caroline smiled brightly.

  “I’ve brought you a ribbon for your hair. A Christmas present.” Marion was glad she’d chosen a blue ribbon during her wait for the mail in Southwell. The ribbon would nearly match the color of Miss Caroline’s eyes.

  “Will my hair ever be like yours?” Miss Caroline asked, her eyes plastered to Marion’s ruler-straight fiery red hair with something akin to envy.

  “Why would you wish for hair like mine?” Marion asked amusedly. “Especially when yours is so lovely.”

  “Harriet said it was fuzzy.”

  “Harriet?”

  Miss Caroline shrugged. “She left. She said my hair was fuzzy every time she brushed it.”

  “Curly hair can be fuzzy when it’s brushed.” Marion remembered vividly a childhood friend plagued with the same problem. “One must comb curls.”

  The child pouted. “I do not have a comb.”

  “Perhaps your mother does.”