“By your father’s comb?” Caroline asked.
The governess nodded. A tiny smile tugged at Caroline’s mouth. She rarely smiled, not remotely enough for Layton’s peace of mind.
Miss Wood turned Caroline toward the house and marched her away, keeping her arm around her charge’s shoulder. Neither seemed concerned about leaving him behind. Caroline hadn’t even bidden him farewell.
“Miss Wood.” He called after her in as stern a voice as he could produce.
She turned back, a look of sheer defiance in her eyes.
“Ask one of the chambermaids to sit with Miss Caroline when you return,” he instructed. “I would have a word with you in my library.”
She bent the tiniest of curtsies in his direction before turning back and continuing to lead Caroline away.
“Papa sounds cross,” Layton heard Caroline say in a voice so heavy with nervous emotion it tugged at his heart.
“He is probably just cold, dearest.”
“He didn’t like that I took the leaf. Maybe I should put it back.”
“Your father will not begrudge you your leaf,” Miss Wood said. Layton thought he saw her squeeze Caroline’s shoulder. “A child must have some pleasures in life.”
Those words echoed in his mind as Layton walked slowly to the house, bringing with him the blanket Miss Wood had left behind. He settled before the fire in his library. “A child must have some pleasures in life.” Caroline had plenty, he told himself. The reassurance, however, sounded hollow.
In the few days since his return to Farland Meadows, he’d grown accustomed to the Caroline he’d found upon his arrival: the bright-eyed girl who smiled and giggled and talked. Caroline had blossomed.
Someone rapped lightly on the door of the library.
“Come in,” Layton called out, not rising from his seat near the fire.
Miss Wood walked in, her eyes still snapping and a tenseness emanating from every inch of her. She, who had never seemed anything but cheerful, entered the room noticeably angry. At the sight, Layton grew angry himself. He’d known she would be trouble. She didn’t know her place as a servant in his household.
“You wished to see me, sir.” A certain edge to her voice belied the humble demeanor she obviously attempted to adopt.
“Did Caroline’s leaf survive its journey to the house?” Layton watched her haughtily, giving her a chance to stew.
“I am pleased to say it did.” His scrutiny did not appear to shake her in the least. “Drops of Gold are notoriously hardy.”
“Tell me, Miss Wood”—Layton leaned back in his chair and formed his features into a look of mocking civility—“does my daughter truly believe that soggy mess is a gold leaf?”
“A Drop of Gold, sir,” Miss Wood answered without a hint of unease in her voice or stature. “There is a significant difference.”
“Perhaps you should explain this remarkable fable to me, Miss Wood. So I can decide what is to be done about it.”
“Done about it?” Now she looked uneasy.
“I have no argument with Caroline developing her imagination,” Layton said. “But to believe such a ridiculous tale as entirely as she obviously does concerns me greatly.”
Miss Wood looked as though she were barely biting back some retort. Layton found himself strangely wishing she’d spill her thoughts. Why he enjoyed brangling with her, he couldn’t say. He’d never argued with Bridget.
“Do you really wish to hear the story, sir?”
“If you please.” Though he hadn’t intended to, he sounded mocking.
Miss Wood certainly caught the tone. She looked immediately affronted. Her chin raised a fraction.
“Once upon a time”—She gave him an equally mocking smile, and Layton had to bite back a laugh—“a handsome young man met a kindhearted young lady. They fell quite exceptionally in love with one another, wishing never to be parted for the remainder of their days. They were married on the fairest of spring days, sweet flowers blooming in the air. The young man planted a tree for his new bride: an extraordinary tree, whose broad leaves would turn gold as summer turned to autumn. The tree grew larger and taller, its branches spreading over the banks of a wide river.”
Miss Wood spoke as though the words were committed to memory, not extemporized. Her tone had changed as well, growing soft and nostalgic.
“The loving couple was blessed in time with a strapping son and a loving daughter. They spent their summers—the small family—beneath the shading branches of the growing tree, listening to the river. As each summer ebbed away, they watched the leaves slowly turn to gold. One by one these Drops of Gold fell from their branches, swaying in the chilled air as they drifted to the waters below. Away the current would carry them, past fields and flowers, houses and fences. Some would continue their journey down the river until dropping into the North Sea. Still others were collected by people downstream of the tree. All who found one of these Drops of Gold were blessed with joy in life and reason to be hopeful, just like the handsome young man and his kindhearted bride.”